Game of Thrones Season 8
by Wemoleitch
Summary: A sequel to my Season 7 fanfic that I wrote a while back, before season 7 had actually aired. I never finished this one but I feel inspired to try again. This is essentially a fanfic of what could have happened and what might still happen in the end game of this epic series. Chapters are written from character's points of views like in the novels. Also some unpopular shipping...
1. Prologue

Game of Thrones

Season 8

The Fanfiction

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If you missed my Season 7 fanfic, you can go to my profile and find it there. So **SPOILER WARNING** in case you haven't read up until now.

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Prologue

The Long Night blankets the long, wintery road in shadow; blinding Rickard Grymes on his journey home. After working his market stall in Queenscrown all day under this thick, impenetrable darkness, all Rickard wants to do is see his family, kick his feet up, smoke his pipe, and forget about his troubles. Up the road a ways, a few snickering whores prance drunkenly toward him. One of them points at Rickard and giggles to the other. When they get close enough, the girls link arms and block his path, grinning wickedly. Warts and bleeding pimples cover what might have once been a pretty face. "Where's a _handsome thing_ like _you_ going on a night like this?"

"To my _daughter-_ out of my way, you _filthy whores_." Rickard replies coldly, forcing their arms apart so that he might pass. They try and resist, and he accidentally ends up pushing one of them over to the cobblestones. She cries out melodramatically, cursing at him while the other throws a snow-ball at the back of his head, but Rickard keeps his eyes on the road, more determined than ever to return home. _Just ten more minutes and I'll be back, Myrabell_. _Today's your nameday and Daddy's been gone all day digging up shit with his nose. Mom probably told you not to get your hopes up since we can't exactly afford gifts… but Gods forgive me, I couldn't resist…_ Bouncing in his satchel at his side is the clay figurine of a Direwolf. It cost him three silvers and a free pound of his freshest pork, but Rickard paid it happily. _It's not every day you turn six. I can't wait to see the look on her face when I show her._

A minute passes before Rickard glances back over his shoulder. He can still hear the whores, but the Long Night's shadow has swallowed them whole. No matter which way he looks, a wall of blackness follows him. There's a brothel nearby as well as a closed down Inn. Asides from that, Rickard is completely alone with the howling wind… _Crunch, crunch, crunch_ , go his feet through the thick snow. As he passes the brothel, he hears men inside laughing about something, _"They says the North no longer has a King! They says we gots a Queen of the North now! Can you believes that!?"_

Rickard frowns, ignoring their banter, having no interest in the high lord's games. _Whether it be a King or Queen, as long as someone's there to keep us safe from the Mad Queen in the south, I don't care who sits the throne in Winterfell. Let the Starks worry about politics while I worry about my family's well-being._ A high-pitched scream pierces his ears, making Rickard jump in his skin. He wheels around, facing the black depths behind him, but once again there's only darkness. The scream echoes endlessly, Rickard hears nothing else... nothing but the winds of winter. _It's probably just one of the whores in the brothel having a good time. Nothing to fret about._

Rickard continues, hugging himself for warmth. _Crunch, crunch, crunch_. Up ahead there's a fork in the road. Rickard goes left, heading eastward. The only light Rickard has to go by is the dim torchlight lining the street… Suddenly there's another shrill scream, this one a man's—and it's closer than the other, but he can't tell where it came from, only that it was close. Rickard freezes, his face numb and his knees shivering, before slowly turning around.

Nothing…

Rickard gulps…

 _Crunch, crunch, crunch_ , _crunch, crunch._

 _Are those just my footsteps I hear?_

He stops again, listening…

 _Crunch… crunch… crunch_ … _crunch, crunch, crunch!_

Rickard takes off sprinting as fast as he can, kicking up snow, terrified. He's a child again, afraid of the dark. _I'm almost home, just get home and it'll all be over._ As he runs, the heavy crunching behind him continues, _crunch… crunch… crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch—crunch—crunch—crunch!_ Rickard's too afraid to look, running blindly, hands flailing, trying desperately not to trip and fall—the snow growing heavier and heavier the closer he gets to his house. He can see it now, just up the street, enclosed by thick trees, it's one of the nicest homes in the village. Seeing it again fills him with relief. _I'm going to make it! I'm going to make it!_

In his overwhelming, newfound confidence, Rickard braves another look over his shoulder.

There's three disfigured shadows sprinting right for him, each dressed in snow-drenched rags, gripping axes, swords, and daggers in their claws. Rickard only sees them by the bright, blue glow in their eyes. " _Oh Gods_ , who are you _people!?_ " Rickard screams, gawking as he runs, and something catches on his ankle—his world spins as the snow flies up to greet him. The cold bites into his face as he sinks several feet, spluttering and coughing. _Crunch—crunch—crunch—_ He shoves his hands into the ground and forces himself back up on his feet, wheezing for air. Rickard hears them emit a high-pitched cackle, and it sounds like rocks grinding together. They're close enough now for Rickard to see every disturbing detail. One of them is missing half of their torso as if he'd been mauled by a bear, ribs poking out at his sides. Another is a woman with shaggy, black hair, missing her jaw so that her tongue wags around like a limp cock. The third is the thinnest of them, nearly naked save for small-clothes; a young boy no older than Myrabell, with two deep, bleeding stab wounds in his belly.

Somehow Rickard Grymes makes it to the steps of his house, scrambling up to his door, he throws it open and leaps inside—right into his wife's open arms. _"Close the door!"_ he screams, not even seeing her through his tears, he tries to reach for the handle, but his wife is clutching him tightly, holding him back. " _Leggo of me!_ Get the _children_ and—"

 _Crunch!_ Rickard's words are cut off as blood surges up his throat. His wife's jaws are around his jugular, ripping his flesh with her teeth. He shoves her and she stumbles backward into the shadows of their home, slipping on a massive puddle of blood. She falls to her hands and knees, blue eyes glaring back at him with a piece of his neck hanging between her teeth… Rickard falls to his knees, gasping for air but tasting only blood. His wife stands back up, screeching the most unnatural sound Rickard has ever heard in his life. The others chasing him are now pounding up the steps to his home. _I'm… I'm bleeding—why, what's going on_?! Rickard lowers his hand from his throat, and is amazed by the red, glistening oil masking his flesh.

As his wife and the three strangers pounce on him, ripping him apart with bare hands, the last thing Rickard Grymes sees is little Myrabell slowly rising up from the floor amidst the pool of blood, eyes as blue as winter roses.


	2. Daenerys I

Daenerys

Drogon's brothers help lower his massive, black corpse into the great, scorched Dragonpit atop Rhaenys's Hill. Rhaegal has Drogon by his shoulder-blades while Viserion clutches Drogon's hind quarters, their talons digging into his black scales. Even in death, with one of his wings burned to bone by the wildfire, Drogon is still bigger than his siblings. Riding on Viserion's spine is Daenerys Targaryen, her white, braided hair whipping in the breeze while her Hand, Tyrion Lannister, clutches the small of her back to remain steady. Both of them watch as Drogon is placed in the center of the pit's ruins amidst broken beams of seared wood and sand. _This is the best I can do for you, Drogon. Forgive me._ She wanted to burn him, but Tyrion reminded her that Dragons cannot be harmed by fire.

"Then how do you explain this?" Daenerys had asked him.

"Wildfire is not the same. You know this… You've seen it now for yourself."

"I've done more than that. I felt its heat against my flesh, for the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like… How horrendously painful it truly is…"

The wildfire explosion had swallowed the Red Keep whole, and devastated everything from the Mud Gate to Flea Bottom, sweeping green, dancing flames across over half of the city, joining the dragonfire still raging in the other half, courtesy of Viserion and Rhaegal. After witnessing Drogon's death at the hands of the wildfire, the two dragons had unleashed their anguish upon the innocent people, as well as Dany's own soldiers. Ever since, a calamity of events unfolded; The Dothraki, seeing a quarter of their horsemen burn by the dragons, fled the capital, abandoning Dany's conquest out of either fear or contempt, Dany doesn't know. Only a handful of Dothraki loyalists remain on her side now. Meanwhile, the Martells, Tyrells, Lannisters, Unsullied, and Ironborn pick through the dead in the streets beneath Rhaenys's Hill. Many are attempting to fight the growing flames, both orange and green, but no amount of water seems to be doing the trick—with so many injured and dead clogging up the roads, it's impossible for anyone to maneuver. Some get trapped between the piles of dead and the growing flames, unable to flee, they can only scream for help—but their screams fall on Dany's deaf ears… for right now, all Dany cares about is Drogon.

Once Drogon is placed within the ruins of the Dragonpit, Viserion and Rhaegal land on either side of him, hissing and prodding at Drogon's body with their snouts. _They don't understand, they think he's sleeping… My poor children…_ A single tear slides down Dany's cheek as Rhaegal screams in protest, flapping his wings and leaping out of the pit to fly off his grief. Viserion remains where he is, and allows Dany and Tyrion to dismount, so that they can approach Drogon's body.

 _When Drogon first came out of his egg and crawled across my shoulders… I knew then, right there in that moment, that I would love him like my own child. He was beautiful, playful, fierce, and the quickest to learn how to eat, how to fly, how to hunt. Drogon, my love… I'm so sorry…_ Her giant, black dragon had protected her even until the end. While they were tumbling through the air, Drogon screaming as the wildfire overtook him, Dany had almost fallen—but Drogon had wrapped her in his unharmed wing and shielded her from the fall. A sore shoulder and a twisted ankle was all Dany suffered, and if she could, she would trade her wounds with Drogon's in a heartbeat. _I'd give anything to have you back… Drogon, this is my fault… I never should have come here._

Tyrion clears his throat and begins his eulogy, "Never in history has the world realized a Dragon as glorious and powerful as Drogon, nor has there ever been one as loyal. Drogon… I wish I'd been there to watch you grow, I wish I'd known you longer, I wish we could've become old friends. You're the first Dragon I ever laid eyes on, and you will forever be an inspiration for all who remember you. Goodbye, Drogon… May you find peace in the next life…"

Her Hand looks to her, to see if she'll say a few words as well, but Dany can't bring herself to speak. With a trembling hand, she reaches out and pets the side of Drogon's long, massive face—convinced that if she only stayed a little while and waited, her beloved baby would open his eyes and purr just like he used to… But Drogon's head remains perfectly still, eyes closed, unmoving forevermore.

"Daenerys…" Tyrion speaks softly, "Are you alright?"

"No," She replies, her tone just as numb as she felt, "How can I be alright when everything I've ever wanted has only brought me ruin and death? The Iron Throne is gone, burned away with the Red Keep, my Dothraki have abandoned me, half of my city is burning, _and there's nothing I can do to stop it_ … Drogon is gone, and _for what?_ What have we _accomplished_ , Tyrion?" Dany tears her eyes away from her dragon's corpse and looks down at her Hand, eyes wide with fear, tears freely streaming down her face now. Losing her strength, she collapses to her knees and presses her forehead to Drogon's scales, praying for him to return to her…

Tyrion can only watch sympathetically by her side. "I know all _seems_ lost right now, Dany, but as it stands, Westeros has no ruler. Without a throne, there can be no King or Queen to rule it. And you're right, King's Landing is lost."

"Then _all_ truly _is_ lost. Everything I worked for, everything I sacrificed to get here—all of it was for nothing…"

"That's not true," Tyrion insists, gently grasping her shoulder. "You didn't just come here to rule, you came here to break the wheel, remember? Well, I'd say you've certainly broken that wheel. My sister, the Mad Queen, is dead, and the world will say it was Daenerys Targaryen who freed them of her."

 _Even if that's not the case._ Dany frowns, wiping her face with her wrist, and allows Tyrion to help her stand. "The world will also say how I burned innocent people alive when one of my dragons fell. They'll say how I laid the capital to waste."

"We'll see what they say later. For now, we need only concern ourselves with our next move." Tyrion says, "You should _rest_. You've dealt with _enough_ for one day. Allow me to handle the politics and I'll figure it all out."

Dany nods, still unable to prevent the flow of tears. Eventually Dany and Tyrion part with Drogon. Viserion flies them to The Red Wind still in Blackwater Bay with the rest of her unmanned fleet. Most of her ships were untouched by the battle, having stayed behind out of the archer's range. From out here on the sea, the devastation in King's Landing feels like a faraway dream.

Tyrion tells her, before they part, "I will go and check on _our guest_ while you get some rest, Your Grace."

Dany says, "Tyrion, when she wakes, have her see me."


	3. Arya I

Author's Note: Hey **Khaleesi21** , thank you for all of your reviews! If you would like to talk to me about the story, you can talk to me through the e-mail I have posted on my profile page. I love hearing feedback and constructive criticism, or just discussing Game of Thrones in general. Same goes to anyone, just don't be a Ramsay.

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Arya

All is dark. All is quiet. It goes on and on like this for so long Arya thinks she's dead, and accepts this strange calmness she's feeling as her fate, relaxing into the endless black fog in her mind until eventually a bright light blinds her and Arya Stark wakes up on an unfamiliar bed. Eyes fluttering open, she groggily looks around, everything too blurry to see. There's movement on her right and left, women dressed in white with the seven-pointed star on their bosoms, their faces cloaked in veils. The Silent Sisters of King's Landing are tending to right arm. When Arya narrows her eyes to focus her sight, she sees that her right hand is missing entirely. White bandages soaked in dry blood encase her stump of a wrist all the way up to her elbow. That's when memories of what happened come flooding back—

The door to her room opens but nobody seems to enter. Then the door closes and a man's voice tells the Silent Sisters to leave the room. Arya blinks rapidly, trying to regain her vision. _I'm not blind, I'm just injured. My sight will return. It has to…_ The Silent Sisters exit, and the invisible man appears—having not been invisible at all, merely several feet shorter than most. Even with foggy vision, once Tyrion Lannister lifts himself up onto a chair by her bedside, Arya recognizes him.

Tyrion is giving her a hard, studying stare while his fingers drum against the armrests of his chair. "Are you feeling well enough to speak?" he asks her unsurely, "With all those bandages around your face, all I can see are your eyes, so I _know_ you're awake. If you'd like, I could come back later, when you're feeling—"

"Where am I?" Arya interrupts him, lifting up her left, uninjured hand, wishing to touch her face, but finding herself unable to—a deep, sharp pain shooting down from the stab wound Cersei had given her shoulder.

"Don't move." Tyrion says quickly, "You're on _The Red Wind,_ Daenerys Targaryen's flagship. We found you in the Throne Room…"

She remembers it like a dream. _I was sitting on the Iron Throne, surrounded by wildfire. I thought I was dead for sure, but I didn't care. I had what I wanted…_ "Cersei…"

" _Dead_ , by _your_ hands." Tyrion confirms, "I must say… between all the times Cersei has demanded my head, seeing _Cersei's_ head separate from her body was a pleasant surprise."

"Where is it?" Arya asks, her voice a throaty croak from exhaustion.

Tyrion half-smirks, "My sister's head? At the bottom of Blackwater Bay where it belongs."

 _Damn. I would've liked to keep it for a little while longer._

"Do you know who I am?" Tyrion asks her, "Do you know why you're here right now?"

"I remember," she replies, "You're _the Imp_." She remembers seeing his likeness in the play at Braavos. In the mummer's show, the Imp had betrayed her father for power, marrying Sansa against her will, killing his own father with a bolt to the heart while he sat in the privy.

"I'm also _the Hand of the Queen_ , mind you." Tyrion smiles, "You're Arya Stark, aren't you?"

 _He knows me? He knows my real name? But my face is wrapped in bandages. He hasn't seen Arya Stark in years, since I was a little girl. So how?_ Arya decides to lie, mostly just out of self-preservation. "Who's Arya Stark?"

Tyrion chuckles and leans forward, "If you think I've forgotten what you look like, even under all those burns, you're mistaken. I remember the little girl in Winterfell who enjoyed causing mayhem every chance she had, and I know after Arya disappeared, nobody ever found her. After the horrors my family has put yours through, it makes sense. I'd like to put an end to that. Cersei is dead. My brother and I are the last of my family's name, and I'd like to repair that name with what time I have left. So, Arya Stark, I propose a truce. Let us end the hatred between our Houses at last."

 _There's no lying to him. It's like he can read my mind._ With so many questions, Arya doesn't even know where to start. "You're talking to the wrong Stark. If you want to make peace with my family, talk to my brother, Jon Snow. He's the King of the North."

"I would love to if he were _here_ , but at the moment the only Stark available to me is _you_." Tyrion stands up from his chair, head level with her bedside again, yet he stands with his head held tall. "I'm not asking for a peace treaty here, all I'm asking is that you don't kill me in my sleep, otherwise I might reconsider allowing you to stay on board with us."

"If I was going to kill you, you'd be wide awake, Lannister." Arya smiles, and her face feels like it might split open just from the act.

To her surprise, Tyrion chuckles at her threat. "You might find this hard to believe right now, but in time I think you'll come to like me. I _grow_ on people like _fungus_ … err, perhaps that's not the best analogy. What I mean to say is, give me a chance to prove you wrong, that not all Lannisters are sadistic cunts, and I'll give you a chance to prove that you're not a feral animal who needs to be put down. One word from me, and our new Queen will have _your_ head… or, I could help you keep that head. So, what will it be?"

"What is it you want from me?" Arya asks suspiciously.

Tyrion just blinks and earnestly says, "Nothing yet. You're just a girl, and you've been through a lot. I would love to hear more about what you've been through, where you've been, and how you learned your… particular set of skills. But right now, the Queen wishes to see you."

"Queen Targaryen… How is she the Queen without a Throne?"

"I wouldn't ask her that if I were you." Tyrion warns her, "She's just suffered a great loss… one of her Dragons perished in the wildfire. She wishes to speak with you about what happened."

 _That's right. She has dragons… I remember seeing them from the Iron Throne, two great winged shadows across from the green flames looking down at me. I think one of them picked me up in its jaws and carried me out, but I must've passed out by then because I don't remember anything else…_ "Should I be worried?"

Tyrion doesn't look at her as he considers her question. "Daenerys appreciates honesty, but too much honesty can set her off, and from the five minutes I've spent talking with you, I can tell _too much honesty_ comes second-nature for you."

 _He's got that right. My mouth always got me in trouble when I was a kid. Still does, actually._ "Alright… I'll watch what I say. When is she coming to see me?"

"She… won't come here to see you, Arya. I'm to take you to her once you're awake, and if you wish to be rid of me then we might as well get this over with." Tyrion grins at her like they're old friends, but Arya just stares blankly at him from behind her mask of bandages, still processing all of this.

Arya leans forward, grunting through the pain in her shoulder, and lifts her hand up to remove the bandages from her head. Tyrion turns around politely, admiring a set of golden goblets sitting on the nearby table. When she's done, he turns back around and sets eyes upon the burned, peeling wreckage that is Arya's face. He manages to keep his expression steady, but his eyes can't hide his horror and disgust from Arya, who slowly climbs out of bed.

" _Err_ , let me help you." Tyrion says, rushing in to prevent her from falling over—but Arya grasps her bedside with her only hand and remains standing, albeit hunched over and trembling. He places a hand on her lower back, so Arya shoos him away, saying she doesn't need help. "I beg to differ, you can barely walk."

"I'm fine," Arya growls, "Just take me to her."

"It's not far." Tyrion apprehensively watches her as they head for the door. "This way…"

He leads Arya into a richly designed corridor lined in red, gold, and black sigils of a three-headed dragon. Standing upright now, Arya feels the ship swaying underneath her, turning her stomach, reminding her of just how hungry she is. Something delicious smelling is cooking in a room nearby. Arya has to swallow her saliva several times before being guided up a small flight of steps onto the vast deck of _The Red Wind._

Without the ability to see clearly, King's Landing appears to be a great wall of shadows in the distance, wildfire still burning across half the city, hurling huge columns of black smoke up into the sky, clouding the sun. Hundreds of screams are still emanating from the ruins. The walls had crumbled and fallen in the bay, revealing more of the devastation within, though for Arya it's all a big blur of silhouettes and green light.

"How is your arm?" Tyrion asks her as they stride toward the rear where a magnificent cabin is structured, two golden dragon heads protruding from each corner of the doorway's arch. Arya glances down at her stump, trying to flex the fingers that she once owned, but even that causes her muscles to spasm in a flare of pain. Arya hides her anguish and grins weakly at the Imp, who says, "Sorry, stupid question. I know how difficult it must be accepting it… My brother lost his hand too."

"I know. I met him."

"You did?" Tyrion stops and faces her. Up close she can see that his eyes are wide with curiosity and fear. " _When? Where?_ You didn't kill him too, did you?"

"No, but I thought about it." Arya admits, "It was at the Twins. He was with Walder Frey. I watched him in disguise, so he didn't recognize me. I thought about killing him, but then I heard him tell Walder Frey that he had no use for a craven like him, and he left the Twins with his army. Thought he wasn't so bad after that, and he was never on my list anyway."

"Your list?" Tyrion cracks a grin, "You have _a hit list_?"

"It's not funny." Arya glowers at him, "I killed Walder Frey, you know. I slit his throat after I forced him to eat his own sons. I baked them in a pie." She smiles, remembering the way Black Walder begged for his life as she carved off his toes.

"Thank you for reminding me not to get on your bad side." Tyrion replies, opening the doors to the Queen's cabin.

Daenerys Targaryen sits behind a round table beside a sobbing, young, copper-skinned woman. Upon entering, Dany is in the middle of whispering comforting words, "—I have the Unsullied scouring the city as we speak. He's probably helping out the injured as best as he can."

"But what if he's not?" The other girl asks, sniffing and wiping her nose. At the sight of Tyrion and Arya's arrival, the girl quickly stands and bows, "Forgive me, Lord Hand, I was—"

"There's nothing to forgive; as you were, Missandei." Tyrion tells her sympathetically. "Has there still been no word from Greyworm?"

"Not yet, but there will be, soon." Dany says firmly, reaching out and stroking Missandei's shoulder as she sinks back down in her chair with her face in her hands.

"What's a _Greyworm_?" Arya asks, and everyone in the room stares at her like she'd made some obscene joke. _There goes my mouth again._


	4. Tyrion I

Tyrion

Clearing his throat, Tyrion addresses the ladies in the room, "Arya Stark, allow me to formally introduce you to our new Queen of Westeros, The Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen." Dany and Arya's eyes meet as Tyrion bites his lip apprehensively, hoping neither of them make this more complicated than it needs to be.

"Hello." Arya greets pleasantly enough, but she doesn't drop to her knee.

"Most people _kneel_ before their Queen." Daenerys says, narrowing her eyes at the young, burnt girl before her.

"I'm not like _most people_." Arya retorts, looking around the rich room they're in, unabashed by Dany's statement. "Do you got any food? I could eat a _Lizard-lion_ right about now."

Tyrion quickly snaps his fingers at one of the handmaidens standing by who ducks out to fetch their guest some food and drink. Dany meanwhile watches Arya, guardedly studying the young girl. "My Hand has told me who you are, Arya Stark."

"I know who you are too." Arya says coyly, and Tyrion beckons for her to join him at the table. She does, sitting directly across from Dany, her head held high. The burns on her face are hard to look at, reminding Tyrion of how he once looked after the Battle of Blackwater. _Except I never lost a hand or had such severe burns across my face—just a little scar over my nose and nothing more. I can't imagine the depths of pain she's in right now, yet she doesn't show it. This girl is quite something…_

"What do you know about me?" Dany asks, sitting firm and still in her seat.

"Not much. Just that you've got dragons and you were Queen across the sea somewhere. You came here to conquer Westeros just like your family did once, haven't you?" Arya grins when she asks this, and her grin seems to pain her.

Dany is taken aback by her forthright way of speaking to her. "I haven't come to conquer, I've come to rule."

"Same thing. Different words." Arya shrugs as food is brought out to their table by three Dosh Khaleen handmaidens. Arya's eyes brighten and her red cheeks flush further at the sight of turkey, honey-apples, and fresh, fluffy bread on the plate before her. She wastes no time digging into her meal, stuffing her mouth full, spilling bits of meat all over herself as she struggles to eat with one hand.

Tyrion glances anxiously at Dany, thinking she won't find Arya's behavior acceptable. Daenerys betrays no emotions, stoic and silent as Arya eats. When she finishes, Dany says, "You are our honored guest, Lady Stark, so by all means feel free to eat as much as you'd like, and take the time you need to rest… but before you leave this ship, I want you to answer some questions of mine."

Arya just shrugs, "Lay 'em on me."

"First… when we found you, you were sitting on the Iron Throne with Cersei Lannister's head in your hand. Do you remember this?"

Arya nods, drinking down a tankard of milk.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"You are a _Queenslayer_ now, Arya. This is a capital crime punishable by death. If I was not there, or if things had gone badly for you, you'd have lost your head or burned away in the wildfire. So why did you do it? Why risk everything just to kill one person?"

The light in Arya's eyes dies as she answers, and Tyrion suspects he already knows what she's going to say. "Cersei is responsible for the death of my father… and countless others. I was there the day my father died. So was she. Joffrey gave the command, but his mother never stopped him. If I could, I would go back and relive the moment I removed her screaming head from her shoulders for the rest of my life, because nothing in this world will ever come close to how good that felt."

"So all of this was just revenge?" Dany asks.

"I didn't do it for _you_ , that's for sure."

 _As I thought._ "Our families have been at odds with each other ever since Eddard Stark was made Hand of the King by Robert Baratheon. With so many of these people gone, _we_ are the ones with all the power now," Tyrion glances at Dany, then frowns at Arya, "We would like to reward you for your services, Arya, for aiding us in defeating the Mad Queen."

"I didn't do it to get a _prize_." Arya scowls. "I did it because I wanted to. I don't need a reward for—"

"Forgive me, not a _reward_ then. How would you like _a job_?" Tyrion lifts a goblet of wine to his lips as he asks her this, and is amused by the way Arya's eyebrows tilt in confusion. "You showed tremendous skill in removing my sister's head. Not only did you make it through all of her guards somehow, but you actually defeated her in single combat. I know Cersei, and she wouldn't go down without a fight. Whatever she did to you… your face… it wasn't enough to stop you. I would be a fool not to be impressed with you."

Dany says, "Tyrion has advised me to hire you as my private assassin, Lady Stark, yet all I see before me is a crippled, burnt, insolent, little girl. Tell me exactly how someone like you managed to take down a Queen?"

"I wouldn't be a very good assassin if I told you, now would I?" Arya smirks, leaning back in her chair.

"Careful, Lady Stark." Dany warns, "Keep in mind I can always decide to punish you for your crimes instead."

"So which is it? Am I being thanked or threatened?"

"That depends on your cooperation." Dany seethes.

Tyrion intervenes before either of their tempers can escalate. "Word of my sister's death will spread across the world before long. They'll say Daenerys Targaryen burned the Mad Queen with dragonfire, but those of us in this room will know the truth. How does that make you feel, Arya?"

"If you want to take credit for it then go ahead." Arya shrugs, "Is that why you're offering me this job? To buy my silence?"

Tyrion shakes his head, "No one would believe you even if you tried. We're not trying to buy your silence, we want you to work for us."

"I'm not sure how much use I'll be." Arya admits, showing them her stump. "I can hardly fight anymore, and my vision is blurry ever since Cersei poured hot wine all over my face."

 _So that's what happened._ Tyrion grimaces, shuddering at the idea. "If you don't think you can do this then by all means, deny it. We're not forcing this on you. You are free to go once you feel up to it. But if you stay, you'd have a home with us; food, shelter, and you will be paid handsomely."

After some deliberation, Arya asks, "Who do you want me to kill?"

"Nobody… _yet_." Tyrion drinks his wine, watching Arya mull over their proposition. _It might be best if I wait to bring up my second plan with her; helping us when the time comes to meet with her brother and sister. If Jon Snow truly is King of the North, then perhaps I can sway him to join us. With the North backing our rule, the other houses won't be able to contend with us. I'm sure I made a strong enough impression on Jon for him to remember me. When I left The Wall, he was green as grass. It'll be interesting to see what kind of a King he's grown up to be. As for Sansa, last I saw her was at Joffrey's wedding. Who knows what kind of a woman she is now. The only Stark we have to negotiate with is sitting right in front of us._ "If you agree to join us, the sooner you'll see your brother and sister again. Heading north in this winter is suicide, especially on your own. So how about you stay and work for us, Arya Stark?"

Arya stares down at her stump, blood soaking through the bandages, and a steel resolve washes over her expression. "Alright. I'll be your killer… but there's one more thing I want."

"Name it, and I'll see what I can do." Tyrion says.

"The Mountain. Where is he?"

Tyrion lifts his brow in surprise. "Why do you care about him?"

"He's the last one on my list. He's…" Arya stops herself short and Tyrion wonders what she's hiding now.

"The Mountain is dead." Daenerys says coldly, "Drogon made sure of that."

"I doubt it." Arya scoffs.

"You doubt my dragon's capabilities? I assure you, Drogon was not merciful." Dany's eyes glisten just at mentioning her dead dragon's name.

"I don't mean to offend your dragons. I just don't believe The Mountain is actually dead."

"I saw it with my own eyes, Arya." Tyrion winces, taking a drink, "Drogon picked him up and threw his body against a building like he was an egg."

"Well I need to see his corpse for myself." Arya insists, standing up. "I'll take a boat into King's Landing and look around myself."

"No need. I'll accompany you." Tyrion says, standing as well. Arya frowns and tries to dismiss him, but Tyrion insists. "You seem positive that he is still alive somehow. If this is true, I'd very much like to see it with my own eyes, just to be sure. It'll give us some time to get to know each other as well."

Arya sighs and gives Tyrion a look that tells him she already thinks she knows everything there is to know about him. _Just wait, She-Wolf. This Dwarf may surprise you yet._


	5. Jon I

Jon

After dying and coming back the first time, it had taken Jon some time to get used to walking, talking, and even just breathing without feeling a strange, stab of guilt in his mind. Now that he'd died twice, Jon didn't have any of those feelings anymore. When Jon died, he entered the same, black void from the first time. All was darkness; Empty, endless darkness… It had put the fear of death in him, and he'd done everything he could to avoid its clutches. _Even when I was King, I tried to get my enemies to see reason with words, instead of showing them proof. I wasted time in Winterfell and let Sansa stab me in the back. It was my own fault for not seeing it coming. I should've acted. I should've left before Sansa could've ever betrayed me…_

Every night, Jon Snow didn't sleep. It just never came for him. He'd lay awake staring up at the ceiling of his tent, but his eyes never felt heavy. He asked Thoros of Myr if this was a side-effect from dying twice, and the Red Priest only shrugged with a grin and said that Beric had trouble sleeping too after coming back. Jon had Beric's body burned before they retired from Moat Cailin. The Brotherhood without Banners had insisted on performing the ritual, for it was their Red God's will. _The night is dark and full of terrors, they say. But I've seen true night, and there's nothing frightening hiding in the darkness… Nothing at all._ Thoros quickly earned Jon's trust after just getting to know him for a few nights, hearing his tales while he drinks and Jon dourly sits by a fire, gazing into the flames. Davos on the other hand didn't get along with Thoros. Something about the bushy-bearded, red-cheeked Priest puts Davos on edge, and Jon guessed it had to do with his past with The Red Woman.

On this night, Jon is circling the Brotherhood's camp, helping the men keep watch. _If I can't sleep, I might as well make myself useful._ The five hundred men in their small army have pitched up nearly a hundred tents between the trees on the outskirts of the Crannogmen's forest, just off the Kingsroad, in a snowy bank. _The woods here are unlike the woods beyond The Wall._ The trees are further spaced apart, and the ground has formed frozen puddles leading into the marsh, making every footstep crack loudly. Being this close to the Crannogmen makes Jon nervous, but he doesn't let it show. The other men don't seem to have any fear. Most are still in mourning over the loss of Beric. Some cast Jon weary glances when they pass him by, but many others have proclaimed him their King, even if that wasn't truly his title anymore.

As Jon approaches the edge of the forest where the Kingsroad is supposed to be (there's so much snow the road's invisible) Jon glimpses a column of black smoke rising in the south over the hills. _That's where the Twins are. Thoros says there's still Brotherhood stationed there…_

Jon Snow turns back and yells for the men to arm themselves and prepare for battle. When Davos and Thoros join him, bleary-eyed from the rude awakening, and pulling on their small-clothes, Jon explains why the sudden urgency. "There's a fire at the Twins. The Crannogmen may have attacked it."

Within minutes, the tents are packed, the horses are whinnying in protest, and everyone rides out, five hundred in all. Jon recalls Howland Reed's ambush on him back in Moat Cailin, and how thousands of green-men had materialized out of thin air, hiding underneath the snow with spears waiting for them… _We don't have the men to attack Howland and survive, but if he did take his forces to Winterfell, then there's a chance we might just find a smaller force to contend with._ "I'll head a ranging party ahead and scout the towers from afar, to see if what we're dealing with. If need be we can always ride the Kingsroad south and avoid the Twins altogether."

Davos rides a grey mare beside Jon, his beard and brow white with frost. "There's a chance that these are the Ironborn, Your Grace. I failed my mission to recruit their allegiance to our cause, and witnessed for myself as Euron agreed to help Howland Reed. All Euron wants is to be King of Westeros, and marry Daenerys Targaryen for himself. It'd make sense that he would attack the Twins next on his way south while Howland goes north."

"How many men does Euron have?" Jon asks, "And I told you, stop calling me ' _Your Grace_.' I'm not your King anymore, Ser Davos."

"Forgive me, Jon. _Old habits._ You may not be King, but you're still the King Westeros needs. As for Euron's men, I counted roughly two thousand. Not much, but still four times the size of our Brotherhood without Banners…"

Once again, Jon's reminded of the Wildlings and how their numbers would've helped right now. _If they hadn't come with me none of them would've died. If Sansa hadn't forced them out…_ He sees Tormund being struck down, three spears buried in his back… he sees Lady Mormont tumble from her horse as a spear juts up from the snow through her neck. He sees Ghost tackling Nymeria away from him before she tears the white direwolf's throat out. Jon clenches his fist, and a part of him hopes to find Howland at the Twins, unprepared. _He thinks I'm dead. He won't see us coming._

But it's not Crannogmen they find laying siege to the Twins, nor is it Ironborn. To Jon's utter shock, the flapping banner over the army outside the Twin's southern gates displayed none other than a leaping trout.

"The Tully's?" Davos exclaims, showing his shock as well. From up on their snowy hill, with the dark sky on their backs, anyone at the Twins wouldn't be able to see them. Jon crouches down next to Davos in the snow, rubbing his hands together for warmth, taking the sight in with batted breath.

"Why are they attacking the Twins?" Jon asks.

Davos shrugs, "I'm not sure. House Tully was defeated by the Lannisters last I'd heard. Riverrun was in their control, but they left the Freys in charge of the Riverlands, and the Freys are all dead thanks to the Brotherhood. So, my guess is one of the Tully Lords took back Riverrun and came here to seek revenge."

Jon tries to recall who of his Tully family were still alive, but can't. "They're attacking the wrong men. They must not realize the Brotherhood are there now, not the Freys."

"Then perhaps we should fix their mistake?" Davos lifts his brow at him and smirks, "Lord Tully is your uncle, is he not?"

"He _was_ , but not anymore." Jon frowns. _I'm a Targaryen now…_

"Well perhaps he doesn't need to know that."

"I haven't even seen my uncles since I was a boy. They know I'm a Bastard, and they didn't come to help during the Battle of the Boltons. Whoever they're sworn to, they won't fight for me."

"Your Grace—Jon, right now, we don't have an army, and you're wanting to march into King's Landing and ask The Mad Queen for help. Without an army, no Queen can take us seriously, least of all Cersei. The Tullys being here may be a blessing in disguise."

"You call that a blessing?" Jon gestures to the south tower of the Twins, which was burning so violently that the flames were threatening to bring the whole thing down. The cheering of the Tully men fill the air over the roaring fire. The northern tower is untouched as of yet, however…

"It's your call, Jon. We can avoid this if you want…" Davos glares at Jon and grabs his shoulder, "Or you can stand up and be the man you're meant to be. That's your _uncle_ down there, and from here it looks like he has a couple thousand men at his back, as well as some ballista and trebuchets. All of that could be _yours_ if you _want_ , Jon."

" _How?"_ Jon asks.

Davos tells him exactly how, and when he's done, Jon considers the plan for a moment… then stands up and agrees to do as Davos suggests. They gather the Brotherhood and ride down the sloping, snowy hillside toward the Twins. Upon their arrival, the Tullys drum and blow trumpets in warning.

Once at the northern tower, Jon dismounts and joins a few Brotherhood guards standing by the gates. Thoros gets them to let them through, where inside Jon finds the handmaidens of the Twins cowering by a hearth, whispering to each other comforting words to try and stay their fears. "How many men have we lost?" Thoros asks Anguy, who enters the room with a sour expression on his face.

"Too many. Lord Fish-for-Brains out there thinks we're bloody _Freys_ , and wouldn't listen to us." Anguy glares at Jon, "Who're you supposed to be, _handsome_?"

Thoros grins toothily and answers for Jon, "He's our King of the North."

"Where's Beric?"

"He's dead."

"He's _always_ dying, _where is he_?"

"No, he's dead for good this time." Thoros's grin falls and he appears sad once more, "He gave his life so that Jon may live."

Anguy incredulously steps back, "Really now? Is that so?"

"Aye, and if you want the Tullys to stop attacking I'm your best chance at doing just that." Jon says, stepping up and lifting his gloved hand for Anguy to shake. "My name's Jon Snow, and I'm not your King, but if you'll have me, I'll do my best by Beric Dondarrion and fulfill his wish."

"And what was that?" Anguy asks him, eyeing Jon's hand suspiciously.

"To stop the White Walkers from killing us all." Jon retorts, and Anguy grins, shaking his hand.

"Very well then. How do you propose we stop the fishes from destroying our last tower here? It won't take long for them to cross the bridge and get to us."

"I have a _plan_." Jon tells him, and he informs the Brotherhood without Banners of what he's about to do, asking them to remain here and keep guard in case it doesn't work and Jon falls. _If I die again then so be it, Thoros can bring me back._

When Jon goes outside again to cross the bridge, the top of the burning southern tower explodes with a shower of stone and fire—a boulder from the Tully's trebuchet smashing clear through, tumbling down into the river with a splash. Debris scatters across the bridge as the southern tower finally groans and the flames consume it whole, going up like a gigantic candle in the snowy wind. It leans over and collapses into the river, causing a brief earthquake.

" _Bastards."_ Thoros swears, joining Jon, Davos, and Anguy. The four of them make their way across the bridge, stepping over rocks and burning pieces of wood. The lowest level of the tower still remains standing, but inside all is bight and burning. "We can't pass through that. We have to go around, or take a small-boat, otherwise we'll be shouting at each other across the river all night."

"No need," Jon says, "I'm a Targaryen… Fire can't hurt me, right?".

"That's an old myth." Thoros says, casting Jon a grimace, "One that died at the tragedy at Summerhall, if I'm not mistaken. King Aegon perished in the flames… Have you ever been harmed by fire?"

Jon tries to remember, and recalls a time he grasped a scalding hot lantern, throwing it at a wight in order to save his Lord Commander's life…

"Jon, now is hardly the time to test this theory." Davos mutters nervously.

"I'll stick my hand in the flames and see if it burns me… if it hurts I'll pull it out before I catch fire… I have to know, Davos." Jon removes his glove from his right hand, examining the burns he once received still etched in his flesh…

"And if you burn your hand to the point where you can't wield a sword?" Davos asks in sarcastic anger, clearly disapproving of this.

Jon doesn't know what to tell the man, so he can only clasp him on the shoulder and smile before heading off alone into the burning wreckage of the tower.

Fire rages all around him, alive in its ferocity, licking up the sides of the corridors. Where there was once a ceiling over his head, there's now a gaping chasm allowing the smoke to filter through. The small clearing he stands in is the only room left untouched by the devastation. _I'd have to walk through the fire in order to get to the other side…_

Jon approaches the nearest flames crawling across the floor and he reaches slowly outward, fingers extending… _This might just be the stupidest thing I've ever done. Ygritte would never let this go._ The warmth of the fire is refreshing against his skin after spending so many cold days marching in the snow. He gently lowers the palm of his hand over the flickering spear-tips of the flames, and winces, expecting to feel sharp pain—he recoils out of instinct… but after a moment's reflection, realizes he hadn't felt anything.

He tries again, and wills his shaking hand to stay firmly in the fire. The orange, red, and gold flames crawl up his fingers, enveloping his entire hand… and Jon feels a strange, cold numbness almost as though he'd dipped his hand in a bucket of ice. He quickly pulls it out and scrutinizes at his flesh for signs of burns, but finds only the same old scar from years ago...


	6. Davos I

Davos

Watching his King enter the burning ruins of the Twins fills Davos Seaworth with dread, convinced he's enabling Jon to commit suicide. Davos rounds on the Red Priest, "Do something. Make him see _reason!_ "

Thoros crosses his arms and scratches his beard thoughtfully, "Not sure what you expect me to do."

" _He'll burn himself alive going in there!_ _Or he'll be crushed under the rubble!_ I can't let him do this— _I won't!_ " Davos charges into the roaring heat, clenching his fists as the fire bathes his face. _"Jon! Are you alright!?"_

From amidst the curling smoke, Jon Snow emerges unscathed, smiling up at Davos, showing him his hand. "I wasn't hurt. I held it in the fire for a whole minute just to be sure. Nothing."

Davos doesn't believe it, and stutters when he asks, "Are-are you sure?"

"It felt cold…" Jon flexes his fingers, "My hand is a little numb, but aside from that I'm unharmed."

Thoros of Myr smirks, eyeing Jon's hand for himself. "What about your clothes? Doubt that wolf pelt is fire-proof."

"I'll just take them off then." Jon mutters, and he starts to disrobe. "Davos, will you take my things?"

"This isn't possible… Jon, if you go through that fire, you'll die again."

"I'm not afraid of death anymore, and I know now this will work…" Jon grimaces as he slips off his boots, then his leather armor. Nearly naked in the freezing wind, Jon violently shivers and hugs his arms. _He's mad._ Davos thinks to himself, taking Jon's clothes and wrapping them in a bundle. He takes Longclaw as well, for Jon says he won't need it. _This isn't what we talked about earlier. What's he thinking?_

"How do you suppose Lord Tully will react when you show up on his side naked?" Davos blurts out before Jon leaves.

Jon shrugs and grins sheepishly, covering his privates as he slips off the last of his small-clothes. "Hopefully walking out of the fire untouched will be more impressive than my cock."

"And if you don't return?" Davos asks, tears in his eyes, "What then?" _What do I do if you burn away and Thoros can't bring you back?_

"Then it was good to know you," Jon replies. He turns around and heads back under the gates, disappearing behind the wall of black smoke. Davos closes his eyes and listens for the sound of Jon screaming in pain, for he's positive that's what's going to happen… Yet all he hears is the endless crackling of fire within the ruin. Minutes go by and Davos just stands there, rooted to the spot. Thoros and Anguy head back to the southern tower to join the rest of the Brotherhood there, but not Davos. He sits down in the middle of the bridge as darkness gives way to morning light overhead, and runs his mutilated fingers across Longclaw's hilt…

 _Bugger this, I'm going too._ Davos stands up, equips Longclaw to his side, and runs back to the northern tower with Jon's clothes under his armpit. When he gets there, Davos demands a small-boat to cross the river with. Thoros leads him out to the docking yard underneath the long, wide bridge where a single two-man rowing boat bobs around in the water. Davos gets in and immediately starts rowing without thanking Thoros for his help. _This is his fault for giving Jon these insane ideas. It's Stannis all over again._

Tully soldiers across the river notice his boat approaching, and shout out to him, _"Halt!"_

Davos ceases rowing and squints at the men, both of whom bear the crest of the leaping trout on their shields and armor. "My name is Ser Davos Seaworth! I come on behalf of the King of the North, to treat with your Liege Lord!"

"There is no more King of the North." spits one of the soldiers, "Now there's a Queen."

 _So Jon hasn't shown himself to them yet, he must still be making his way through the tower._ "There's no more Walder Frey either. The Brotherhood without Banners owns these towers you people are currently bombarding."

"Think I should just kill him?" one of the guards asks the other matter-of-factly, drawing his longbow and aiming an arrow across the water. Davos tenses, his mind racing. " _My King is passing through the broken tower as we speak!_ He should be on your side shortly, you'll see for yourselves. Let me pass so we can put an end to this folly."

Both soldiers laugh at this. _"He'll roast alive if that's true!"_

Davos continues to row, his pulse pounding in his ears. Three more soldiers join the shore-line and draw their bows and arrows, but Davos doesn't care. _C'mon Jon, where are you? If you were going to take this long, you might as well have come on the boat with me._

" _Hold it right there, or we'll fire!_ " thunders a soldier, but before he can even finish his threat, one of the other Tullys fires their bow—and the arrow splits across the sky, sinking into the prow of Davos's ship. He pulls harder on his paddles, practically soaring across the river now. The soldiers fight amongst themselves about what to do, and suddenly one of them says, "Fuck it," and fires another arrow. Davos ducks his head and feels the feathers of the arrow graze his hair before plunging into the water.

" _Hold your fire!"_ roars a man who comes bustling down the hillside, grabbing the bow out of the shooter's hands and thrusting his finger up toward the burning tower.

Jon Snow appears, striding through flames, as the remains of the tower crumble behind him. He's as naked as when he entered, and just as Jon predicted, completely unscathed. Davos can hardly believe it, but then again, he'd seen Jon come back to life _twice_. The other men are in shock, lowering their weapons and gaping as Jon steps out of the fire and onto solid earth, making no effort to hide himself, his black eyes scanning the sea of men around him. Everyone is gawking and backing away as Jon walks through the crowd. Some point their swords and arrows at him, others fall to their knees in numb disbelief. One man approaches Jon, all dressed in red and blue armor, his reddish-brown hair cropped around a plain, worried-looking face. The man starts to speak with Jon, but Davos is too far away to hear. He rows and rows until his ship reaches the shore, and Davos clambers out in a hurry, rushing past the distracted Tully soldiers to join the crowd surrounding Jon. He comes into the middle of Jon speaking to the man in front of him, who Davos guesses is Lord Tully.

"How… _how_ are you _unharmed_?" The Lord asks incredulously, his face pale.

"Hello Uncle." Jon greets the man, "My name is Jon Snow, your sister's son, and the King of the North."

 _It won't work,_ Davos thinks, pushing his way closer through the soldiers. _They already know the truth!_

Lord Edmure cracks a smile and narrows his eyes, "I remember you. My sister always despised you… You've told me two lies already. You're not the King of the North anymore and you're certainly not my sister's son, _Bastard_."

"I don't know what news you've heard, Lord Edmure, but I am still the North's King." Jon lies, and Davos is amazed by what he says next, "My sister and I are ruling the North _together_. She is in Winterfell while I travel south."

"Explain to me how it is you didn't _burn alive_ in there or I'll have you cut down where you stand like the naked fool you are." Lord Edmure declares brashly, his cheeks flushing red, glaring around at his men with his chest puffed out. Davos decides to butt in before things get out of hand, and when Jon notices that he's there, he looks genuinely shocked. Lord Edmure draws his sword and points it at Davos's back as he wraps Jon's cloak around his nakedness, covering him from the cold. " _Who the bloody hell are you?!_ How did you get here?!" Lord Edmure rounds on the soldiers who had let Davos through, but Jon interrupts him.

"Lord Edmure, I'd like to propose a deal with you."

"I won't take this insolence from _you_ , boy. Answer _my_ question first! No more _lies!_ The whole Realm has heard about your fall from grace. Sansa is the Queen of the North, and you're just a pretender. Where's your army? _Hm?_ Where's _evidence?_ All I see is your bare ass and this old man."

" _Jon_." Davos whispers, ignoring Lord Edmure Tully, "Are you _sure_ about this?"

Jon casts Davos a reassuring nod before brushing past him and walking straight up to Edmure. "Believe what you want, but I know some things about _you_ , Uncle. You're a craven and you're weak. Attacking the Twins and getting back at Walder Frey is the best a man like you can come up with, but you're too late. The Freys are dead. I had the Brotherhood kill them myself."

" _Another lie."_ Edmure spits, "A little boy saved me from my cell. The Brotherhood wasn't there, _no one_ was, just a bunch of dead Freys. I looked for Lord Walder to see if I could slit his throat myself, but then the Brotherhood arrived and I had to escape."

"Then you already know they're dead, why attack the Twins now?" Davos asks angrily.

Jon answers before Edmure can, "Because like I said, he's a _craven,_ and this is a best he can do. Attacking King's Landing and the Lannisters isn't an option for him. At best, he has three thousand fighting men at his disposal, and most of them are injured, tortured, or crippled. So he attacked the Twins like a _beaten dog_ howling for attention, isn't that right, Uncle?"

"How _dare_ you…" Lord Edmure growls, his sword quivering in his grasp. Jon steps even closer, and the Tully soldiers back away in unison, afraid of him.

"It's a shame you were impatient, Uncle. Luckily for you, I'm here now, so you can end this pointless siege."

The soldiers murmur amongst themselves, and Davos hears a mixture of distrust and belief between them all. Most just seemed to care about how he wasn't burned alive, some offer jokes about his nakedness. Edmure tries to quiet everyone down but no one is listening to him. _He doesn't command their respect. They're only here out of duty to their Lord, and nothing more. In other words, their allegiance can be bought…_ Davos wonders if Jon realizes this.

" _Silence! All of you!"_ Edmure rages on while Jon steps closer to the sword so that its steel point presses against his chest.

"If you wish to be known as Kingslayer and Kinslayer before all of your men, then strike me down. I have no fear of death, Uncle. Not anymore." Jon firmly tells him, then turns his eyes on the surrounding soldiers, "You've all seen for yourselves the power I have. I walked through the fire unburnt. Do you all want to know how I did it?"

Most nod and say, _"Aye,"_ while only Edmure and a handful remained distrustful. Davos watches Jon anxiously, and what Jon says next doesn't surprise him, for it was what they'd planned.

"I am Jon Targaryen by name. In truth, my father was Rhaegar Targaryen and my mother was Lyanna Stark."

" _Then we're not related at all!"_ Lord Edmure spits, his eye twitching.

"We never were either way, Uncle. You said it yourself, I was just your sister's _Bastard_." Jon smirks while they all listen in silence. "You don't have to believe me. You just have to stop attacking the Twins. They're yours now, after-all."

"What do you mean, they're _mine_?" Lord Edmure asks, almost wincing, too afraid to lower his sword and too afraid to pierce Jon with it, he stands frozen in place like an awkward statue. "I don't want this stinking bridge, I want my _vengeance!_ "

"Then join me and I'll give you the Mad Queen's head." Jon tells him, "Along with the Riverlands, I'll restore your name and titles, and make you Lord of everything from the Twins to the Blackwater Rush. My sister has already agreed to it."

Lord Edmure actually drops his sword to the ground, his hands falling limply to his side, while his soldiers all gasp and whisper. "How could you possibly—you're King of the _North_ , you don't control who owns what lands south of here…"

"I will once I am King of Westeros." Jon declares, "As Targaryen by birthright, I will cast down the Mad Queen and take the Iron Throne for myself. All I ask is for your loyalty and your men. Help me take back the Kingdoms from the Lannisters, and I'll give you everything you ever wanted, including revenge."


	7. Melisandre I

Melisandre

 _The night is dark and full of terrors…_

Lord Eddard Stark's face is stern and cold. The statue of his likeness stands with his hands folded over the stone sculpture of his greatsword, _Ice_. Beneath him resides the chest bearing the dead Lord's bones. Melisandre stands perfectly still staring at the statue, her hands folded over her lap. She's used to the quiet empty chambers now, having spent the last two nights down here in the crypts. When she arrived with Howland Reed at Winterfell's gates, she was immediately whisked away by Knights of the Vale and led down into the darkness to remain in hiding. Howland had warned her this would happen, and Melisandre accepted it without arguing. Soon they would leave Winterfell and head south again. _I'll only have to suffer a couple more nights down here. At least there's fire to keep me company._

The only threat to her being discovered happened when a couple of men came down into the crypts to keep the sconces along the walls burning. Melisandre heard their voices and hid quickly. They came but once a night, and spending so much time down here makes Melisandre adept at knowing which dungeons to hide in while they work. She found the hall where the late Stark family's stone tombs reside not long ago, and found the room to be the warmest in all the crypts, despite there being only two torches on either side of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn's statues. A strange, smooth, black rock caught her attention. Melisandre strokes the stone's surface, recognizing it to be the same stone found on Dragonstone— _Obsidian_. _Why is this here? Obsidian doesn't form in Winterfell… and what is this?_ She thumbs over the small, parchment-thin hole in the center…

Echoing footsteps distract her and Melisandre stands upright, spinning around in alarm. _It can't be the same men from before, it's too early…_ She hesitates, wondering if perhaps Howland is coming to visit her again. She moves behind the statue of Catelyn Stark and crouches down in the shadows, watching the archway to the chamber, waiting…

"Are you in here, My Lady?"

The unfamiliar voice belongs to a small, thin man with black hair running white and a little beard strapped to his chin. The symbol of a Mockingjay is pinned to his chest, keeping his velvety cloak draped over his shoulders. His beady eyes land on Melisandre as she emerges from the shadows slowly. He smiles and says, "Forgive the sudden intrusion. Howland told me I would find you down here. My name is Petyr Baelish, Step-Father to Robert Arryn, the Lord of the Vale. I can tell just by looking at you who you are."

Melisandre says nothing. Petyr enters the chamber, eyeing Lady Catelyn's statue with a conniving smirk on his face. He says, without looking at her this time, "I've been meaning to speak with you face to face for quite some time now, Lady Melisandre of Asshai. I've heard a great deal about you over the years. Some are only rumors, but others… well, I had to know for myself whether or not they were true… Howland agreed." Petyr turns and faces Melisandre fully before saying, "And it turns out _some_ rumors, as insane as they might sound, are true. Jon Snow is dead, killed by a shadow with the face of a man…"

 _He knows. He knows everything. Did Howland tell him, or was he in on it from the beginning?_ Melisandre frowns, suddenly questioning everything Howland has ever told her.

"You must be wondering how I know." Petyr grins, leaning in closer to whisper, "Didn't you ever wonder how the Crannogmen knew where you were traveling? Did you find it to simply be a coincidence that Howland would have need of a woman with your talents? Or perhaps you thought it was the Red God's will that you and Howland crossed paths… Whatever you believed, it was false. I was the one who told him to take you into his fold. Brienne was also, by my design, there to be captured. I implanted the idea in Sansa Stark's head to send Brienne south to negotiate with her uncle in Riverrun. You and Brienne were both necessary pieces needed in order to obtain both Euron Greyjoy and Oathkeeper, Brienne's Valyrian Steel Sword…. It just so happened you were both in the same place when they found you."

"Why?" Melisandre asks, speaking for the first time to the man, "I understand needing me to use Euron for his King's blood, but why Brienne's sword? What importance does it have?"

"More than you know." Petyr sighs, "I trust you still have it?"

Melisandre nods, and reveals that she's been keeping it hidden behind the statue of Eddard Stark. Petyr smiles as she pulls it out from the shadows, the ruby in its hilt glinting off the firelight, and hands it to him. Petyr can hardly lift the sword, so he lets the blade drop back into the dirt, leaning on it. "This _thing_ is heavier than I realized…"

"Who do you intend to wield that sword and for what purpose?" Melisandre asks him, crossing her arms over her bosom. Petyr glances at her, their eyes searching each other's wordlessly for answers.

"Right now, that's not important, nor does it concern you, my dear." Petyr answers, and he returns Oathkeeper to its hiding place behind the statue.

"Then why are you here? What do you _want_ from me?" Melisandre asks, growing more and more uneasy the longer she stands in this man's presence. Something about him gives her a stone-filled dread in the pit of her stomach, a feat no man can claim. _I trusted Howland this far, but has his belief in The Lord of Light been false this entire time just to use me for this man's benefit? Is that why we had Jon Snow murdered? How far do the lies go, Reed? If only the flames would show me the way…_

Ever since Jon's death, Melisandre has been unable to use the fire to see the future. She spent hours trying down here, with nothing but time on her hands… _Have I made a grave mistake? Have I betrayed my own God unknowingly and now I must suffer the consequences? No. It was his will that gave birth to the shadow that slew Jon Snow. It had to have been the Lord of Light's will… Or have I repeated the same errs I made with Stannis?_

Petyr Baelish strides past her to the center of the room, his back to her. "When I was a boy, I visited Winterfell once. It was the first and last time I would ever see the castle until recent years. I was a nosy child, always liked to go places I shouldn't. I came down here to investigate the famous crypts and see if I could find spirits lurking its depths. Instead I found _this_ room... Back then, these statues weren't built yet. None of these tombs were here. It was just an empty, dark cavern… There wasn't any fire, so I was blind. I tripped on something sticking up out of the ground…" Petyr slips his hand beneath his robe and produces a dagger. The blade is just as black as the obsidian stone in the floor. "This dagger is made of Valyrian Steel just like that sword. When I discovered it, I kept it for myself… so that I might have my own little secret deep beneath Winterfell."

"And what secret is that?" Melisandre asks, and he smiles, kneeling down beside the obsidian stone and gently sliding his dagger inside the thin crack.

"Let me _show_ you," Petyr grins, and his eyes are alive like he's a child again, twisting the dagger in the stone as if it were a key turning a lock. Suddenly the ground behind Melisandre shakes. She spins around and the wall behind both statues rumbles before sliding downward, opening a narrow, cavernous passage. Petyr chuckles, standing up, leaving the dagger in the ground. "I have a feeling you of all people will want to see _this_. Follow me."


	8. Jaime I

Jaime

The once bustling river known as _the White Knife_ has frozen over, its glassy surface barely visible under the Long Night's shadow. From where he stands, Jaime spots several dead fish encased within the ice. His stomach growls impatiently and he wonders how long it would take to carve the fish out of the ice to cook, or if they were even edible anymore. Jaime hasn't had a decent meal since he left the Twins nearly a week ago, and the small amount of food he did bring with him is now cold and tasteless. _Brienne must be famished as well…_

Their campfire is starting to die, giving in to the cold, whipping winds. Sitting beside it under a naked oak is Brienne of Tarth. She is still wearing her armor beneath a thick, hairy blanket Jaime had given her. Only her red-cheeked face is visible, tired bags under her eyes as she watches the flames dwindle. Jaime trudges through three feet of snow, soaked from his knees down even through his leather boots, and joins Brienne's side, huddling up beside her in his traveling cloak. His breath creates a steamy fog around his face as he settles back against the tree, while his arm brushes against Brienne's. She glances at him and he bleakly smiles back at her. _She has too much on her mind to care about the cold or hunger. I can see it in her eyes, she's tremendously worried about her Lady Sansa…_

Jaime takes a long stick and prods the dying fire's coals, stoking them the best he can. For the past couple of days, Brienne had hardly spoken a word to him. While they traveled, the winds of winter were sharp and howled in their ears, making it hard to hear each other. It was quiet nights like this _(if it's even really night right now)_ that Brienne opened up to him. Jaime waits, his mind swirling with stress of his own, until she says, "We should be in Winterfell tomorrow."

"Good. Any longer out here and I'll freeze my balls off." Jaime retorts with a grunt, giving up on the fire and returning his hands beneath his armpits for warmth. Brienne just scowls at the fire. Jaime's unsurprised. _I think I've only ever seen her smile once… When I gave her Oathkeeper._ She'd told him how Howland Reed had taken it from her in shame, unable to meet his eyes. Jaime had offered her sympathy, but she refused it and promised to get it back once they returned to Winterfell and outed Howland Reed for who he really is.

"What exactly do you hope to accomplish?" Brienne asks him suddenly, snapping him out of his trance.

"Sorry?"

"In Winterfell. With Lady Sansa…" Brienne rounds her eyes on him from beneath her blanket, and they're full of distrust. "Why are you all the way up here, Ser Jaime?"

"You already know why. I told you, my sister sent me." Jaime replies sharply, "Trust me, if I had a choice, I wouldn't be here."

"Why did Queen Cersei send you all the way to the frozen north alone?" Brienne asks, growing impatient. _She knows I'm hiding something. Damn…_

"I'm on a sensitive diplomatic mission, Brienne. Nothing more." Jaime says, hating himself for lying to her. _It's going to be hard enough to take Sansa's head with Brienne around. I know from when we crossed paths in Riverrun that, when it comes to Sansa, Brienne will fight even me to protect her… I can't let her be there when it happens. I have to find a way to get alone with Sansa… perhaps while she sleeps, as dishonorable as that is… No… no, if I'm going to do this… I have to bide my time. That means I have to convince Sansa I'm on her side, and that might prove harder than I anticipated if Sansa has changed for the worse._

"If you're lying…" Brienne mutters with disdain, but Jaime interrupts her—

"What do you hope to accomplish, Brienne? Are you just going to walk in there and declare Howland Reed a traitor based solely on your word alone?"

"It won't just be my word. You were there, you saw it for yourself."

Jaime shakes his head, "I don't know what I saw."

"Yes, you do. You can't deny it, you were right next to me when it happened."

"Don't tell me you actually believe Jon Snow came back from the dead right in front of us?" Jaime smirks, " _C'mon_ Brienne, you're not _this_ gullible. It was a trick… _a show_ … people can't come back from the dead."

"Then how do you explain all of those other dead bodies? How do you explain _that_? You were there, you saw Jon's body with your own eyes and you saw what happened. Beric Dondarrion sacrificed himself to bring Jon back."

"I've never known you to be one who believes in magic, Brienne. It doesn't suit you." Jaime scowls as the fire finally dies, leaving only scorched sticks and rocks.

"Do you believe me when I say that Howland Reed had me locked up for weeks on end without proper food? Would you believe me if I told you how they treated me? How they threw me in a pit of mud to fight lizard-lions every day? How they stripped me of my dignity and my strength and left me with nothing… Would you believe me or call me _naïve_?" Tears glisten in her eyes, and Jaime's guilt swells uncomfortably in his chest.

"Brienne… of course I believe you." _I just can't believe my own eyes… Howland Reed may be responsible for many crimes, but I simply refuse to believe that Jon Snow came back from the dead._ "I plan on offering Lady Sansa peace between the Crown and the North, and when I do, I will make it clear that the terms of this peace include justice for Howland Reed and all of his crimes. I'll stand by your word, Brienne. Don't worry."

They fall silent for a while, until Brienne gets up and says she'll keep watch. Jaime nestles against the oak tree and rests his eyes, searching for some comfort to let his mind drift easily into sleep. Normally he thought of Cersei… but whenever he tries that, all he can see and hear is Bronn as his head is cut off by the Mountain…


	9. Sansa I

Sansa

The Queen of the North sits in the same chair Jon Snow sat in not long ago as King. Assembled around her are her most trusted advisors and allies; Lord Manderly with his belly puffed out on her left, grinning down at his men filling the Grey Hall with laughter, beside him is Lord Glover who sits with a scowl on his face, his food and wine untouched, and next to him is Lord Cerwyn, whose cup is empty and his cheeks red with merriment. On Sansa's left is Lord Petyr Baelish, his side of the table barren. His beady eyes are on the hall, watching in silent reverie as drunk men arm-wrestle, drink in contest, and challenge each other to duels. Tonight, they had every reason to celebrate, for a raven had arrived earlier that day with news from the capital. _The Mad Queen is under attack by the Dragon Queen. Let them fight, let them tire each other out, then my army will take out the rest while they're weak. That's what Littlefinger said…_

It's the night before her army marches south for King's Landing. Sansa had given in and decided that Littlefinger and the others were right, she needed to stay in Winterfell where it was safe and where she could rule and let him do her dirty work for her. She knows she can count on his loyalty, for without her approval, he'll never be able to usurp the Iron Throne. _It just makes me nervous, not actually being there to see it all happen. I have to sit up here in the snow and wait on his word. He's assured me everything will go according to plan… But only a fool trusts Littlefinger._ Yet without his help, Sansa wouldn't be sitting where she is today. Without his help, she'd be married to him and forced to do whatever Jon wanted… _Jon's gone. Stop thinking about him. It's pointless now._ He'd gone to try and alliance himself with Daenerys Targaryen, and just as he'd predicted, the Dragon Queen is invading Westeros. _If Jon gets in my way, I can't show him mercy. He and his true family can bend the knee to me or face the consequences._ Dragons had invaded Westeros once, and they'd forced every noble House to bend the knee to them, even the Starks. Sansa and the other northerners would never allow history to repeat itself, not after all they've lost. _It's the Stark's turn now._

Sansa lifts her goblet of wine to her lips, heeding to the feast with a small smile. Lord Manderly leans in and whispers in her ear, "The men are lively tonight, for they know it will be a long march south. This will be their last night to drink and enjoy themselves. I must thank you, Your Grace, for giving your hall over to them tonight."

"It's my pleasure, My Lord. They deserve this night. Their bravery will be rewarded after the war." Sansa says, her eyes surfing the sea of soldiers, noticing most of them are Knights of the Vale.

"Have you decided who will lead your army in your stead?" Lord Glover asks grumpily, leaning over the table to catch Sansa's eye.

"I have," Sansa replies coldly, " _Lord Petyr Baelish_. When I'm not there, all of you will answer to him."

She can feel Littlefinger's smirk without even looking at him. The others, however, scowl and glare at the little man beside her. Littlefinger is the only one sitting back in his chair with his legs crossed and his hands resting comfortably in his lap. "You expect us to follow him?" Lord Glover grumbles.

"I expect you to obey your Queen."

Just then the doors to the Grey Hall groan open and Lord Howland Reed enters, accompanied by ten Crannogmen who're all dressed in leather armor instead of their usual rags, covering up most of their green skin from the other's sight, but not very well. Their frail, bony bodies and shaggy, unkempt hair are on full display, making many of the Knights of the Vale turn their noses up as they stride down the hall toward the head of the room. Howland kneels down before Sansa, as do his guards. Sansa smiles, lifts her hand, and Howland rises again, leaning on his walking stick with both hands. "Please, Lord Reed, join us. There's food and wine for you and your men."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Howland grins and he hobbles up to their table, sitting next to Petyr and clapping him on the shoulder. _It's so strange, I never pictured Petyr being old friends with a man like Howland Reed._ The greyscale the covers Howland from head to foot in jagged, deep cracks still gives Sansa a moment to collect herself every time she sees him. _He's frightening... Father was friends with him too, once. I need to be respectful. He's given me twenty-thousand men, giving my army a total of 60,000 strong. Without him, I'd be entirely reliant on Littlefinger's Knights of the Vale. All the other northerners have suffered too much over the years, and lost too many for their numbers to matter—even fat Lord Manderly and grouchy Lord Glover don't have very many men under their command._

A guardsman comes rushing down the hall toward their table, his face covered in sweat and his hair layered with snow. " _Y-Your Grace!_ There's two riders at the gate, one claims to be your swornsword and the other— _the other is The Kingslayer!_ "

Sansa rises to her feet automatically, her heart skipping a beat. _Brienne is here?!_ "Let them in, bring them both to me at once."

The guard nods and rushes back to the doors while the men, who were just laughing and drinking, watch him go—a heavy silence collapsing upon the Grey Hall. Sansa notices Petyr and Howland flinging each-other dark looks out of the corner of her eye. _Howland, you claim to have released Brienne once you learned of her loyalty to me. If this is true, then how did you get here before her? I don't trust him. He's too friendly with Littlefinger for my liking…_

When Brienne and Jaime enter, Sansa hardly recognizes either of them. Brienne's face is layered in bruises and cuts and her hair is a tangled mess; and the last she'd seen Ser Jaime was in King's Landing at Joffrey's wedding. He was clean-shaven then, but now his chin is covered in a thick, blonde stubble and his hair is a little longer. As they stride down the Grey Hall, the Knights of the Vale all hiss under their breaths and whisper insults at the Kingslayer, who just ignores them. Brienne kneels down once they are before Sansa's table, her eyes dead-set on Howland Reed. Jaime remains standing.

"Lady Sansa, I have returned with grave news." Brienne says coldly, rising back to her feet and uncrossing her armored arm. She opens her mouth to say more, but Littlefinger interrupts her—

" _Lady Brienne_ , what a great pleasure it is to see you again!" Littlefinger grins, "You look exhausted and famished."

"It's been a long journey." Brienne scowls at him, "All thanks to the man beside you."

Howland shifts in his chair, leaning forward in it, his expression unreadable behind his affliction. "My Lady, I hope you do not bear ill will toward me for our past misgivings."

Brienne ignores him and boldly glares up at Sansa, who is still too shocked to say a word. "Lady Sansa, Howland Reed is a liar, a traitor, and a murderer. On my way here, I found a _massacre_ at Moat Cailin. Jon Snow and his Wildlings were butchered by Howland and his Crannogmen. By your leave, allow me to _execute_ him."

 _What?_ Sansa's heart stops and her vision blurs as tears sting her eyes. _Jon… Jon's dead?_

"Do you have any evidence of this wild accusation?" Petyr asks, tilting his brow.

Brienne looks to Jaime then and says, "Ser Jaime was there as well. He witnessed Jon's body for himself."

"It's true." Jaime nods, placing his real hand on his hip while his golden hand dangles awkwardly at his side, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your brother… he _was_ dead."

"No doubt the word of a Kingslayer _must_ be true." Petyr sneers, and the Knights of the Vale guffaw with laughter. "What I meant to say is, do you have any proof of Howland's involvement in this so-called massacre?"

"Who else but the Crannogmen are capable of ambushing that many people in the snow? Who else could have known they were coming?" Brienne asks and Sansa finds herself believing her swornsword. _If Jon is dead, and Howland killed him… then Littlefinger must've told him he was coming ahead of time._ Blood gushes out of her palms as her nails dig into her flesh. Sansa glares at Petyr, and catches the brief, worried look on his face. _It's all true…_

But then Brienne says, "Jon told me himself after he came back. Jaime and I saw with our own eyes as Jon was resurrected by Beric Dondarrion and his Red Priest, Thoros of Myr."

Littlefinger snorts and hides his smile behind his hand, toying with his beard. "Jon Snow… resurrected… _Ah,_ My Lady, you might be in more need of rest than you realize."

"Wait, what are you saying… Jon's not dead?" Sansa narrows her eyes, her mind racing.

"He was… but he came back." Brienne gulps and looks to Jaime for support. "We saw him come back from death, at Beric Dondarrion's sacrifice."

Jaime shifts his eyes uncomfortably around the room at the other men all snickering at them, and Sansa can tell he's not as convinced as Brienne about her story. "I saw him come back, this is true… he was talking and walking just like a living person, when only moments beforehand he was lying dead in the snow like a statue with a hole in his heart."

"Ser Jaime, you surprise me." Petyr chuckles, "To believe in such fantasies is for children, not Noble Lord and Ladies of the Court. We haven't even addressed the fact that a Lannister has arrived in Winterfell. The Mad Queen's _brother_ , no less."

" _You're right_ ," Jaime says, stepping forward, "Allow me to beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, Your Grace. I come on behalf of my sister, Queen Cersei, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm. My Sister would like to offer you peace between the North and the Crown, and put to bed the tension between our Houses. The only condition I have is that Howland Reed face the Queen's Justice, or Brienne's if it's all the same."

"I was expecting your arrival." Sansa says, surprised by how sturdy her voice is.

Jaime blinks, "You were?"

Littlefinger says, "This morning our Queen received a raven intended for none other than Ser Jaime Lannister. It was from your sister." As if by magic, he produces a folded piece of parchment from his robes. "She must've thought you'd be here by the time it arrived. Oh my… You don't _know_ … do you?"

"Know _what_?" Jaime snarls, walking right up to the table, a vein pulsing in his forehead. The Crannogmen guards and Knights of the Vale swarm in and surround the Kingslayer, gripping spears and swords at the ready. Brienne grips the hilt of her longsword, and Sansa notices it's not Oathkeeper…

"King's Landing is under attack from Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons. She has an army of Unsullied and Ironborn, and her fleet sailed right into Blackwater Bay—according to Cersei's letter, which was vividly detailed, her dragons are _real_." Sansa tells him, "Give him the letter, Lord Baelish…"

Littlefinger obliges, and just as Jaime takes the letter from his grasp, Petyr says, "Cersei practically begged for you to come back to her. Chances are, by now, she's already dead. She also gave up some rather… interesting details about why you're here, Kingslayer… or should I call you _Queenslayer_?"

A dawning realization sweeps across Jaime's face before the Knights of the Vale are on him, kicking him in the back of his leg, forcing him to his knees. Jaime grunts as they shove his arms up behind his back and chain his wrists together. Sansa is still on her feet, her head held high as she declares to the Grey Hall, "Hold him in the dungeons. He'll receive a trial for his crimes against my family and the North."

" _Get off me!"_ Jaime roars, thrashing in the knight's grip, kicking and whipping his head around but to no avail. Brienne's jaw drops in horror as Jaime is dragged past her, down the hall, to the chorus of jeers and taunts as the men throw their goblets of wine, bread, and gravy at him.

" _Lady Sansa!_ Please, you _must_ release him!" Brienne cries over the mayhem, climbing up the steps to her table.

"You're lucky we don't throw you in the dungeon as well for these _incredible_ lies you've brought us." Littlefinger smiles, "You've _clearly_ ruined the feast."

" _Brienne_." Sansa says before her Swornsword can say anything else, "Have you brought any evidence besides the word of a Lannister that proves Howland Reed murdered my cousin?"

"Your _cousin?_ Sansa— _Jon's your brother!_ " Brienne yells. One of the Crannogmen swoops in to grapple her just for the outburst, but Brienne is ready and knocks the green-skinned man upside the jaw, sending him sprawling down the steps.

"I'm sorry to say this all sounds like a personal, vindictive agenda against me for keeping her locked away for a few days." Howland sighs in an almost bored-like manner, shoveling bacon into his mouth while he speaks, "Obviously, I would never commit such a treacherous crime against your family, Sansa... though I'd hardly call ' _The King Who Lied'_ family."

"Do you have any evidence to say that Brienne is lying, Lord Reed?" Sansa asks him calmly.

Howland's mouth droops into a furious scowl, his eyes darting from Sansa to Petyr. "I wasn't aware I was on trial, Your Grace."

"My Swornsword has just accused you of a crime, and I know Brienne wouldn't lie to me for revenge. Finish eating your bacon, Lord Reed. After-wards you'll be joining Ser Jaime in the dungeons."

Howland lifts his brow and leans back in his chair, glaring firmly now at Petyr Baelish, yet Littlefinger is ignoring Howland completely, almost as if he longer exists and he was sitting beside himself again, smiling down at his food and wine. "Forgive me, Lady Sansa, I've been closed off from society for ages… If this is some sort of _jest_ …" Howland mutters as his Crannogmen guards close in around him protectively while both Knights of the Vale and Stark Guardsmen rise from every table. Lord Manderly remains sitting, but Lords Glover and Cerwyn are both on their feet looking nervously around them as the sound of a hundred swords being drawn fills the Grey Hall.

Littlefinger clears his throat suddenly, all eyes on him, he says, "You heard the Lady, boys. Once Lord Reed has finished his bacon, lock him away."

" _You treacherous son of a whore!"_ Howland blusters, rising from his chair. "You cannot do this! My men will not allow this, I will not allow this!"

"You only brought ten men in here with you, my friend," Littlefinger grins, standing up as well and gesturing to the Hall, "Whereas I've brought over a hundred. You're outnumbered. Best go quietly. You won't be harmed, I'm sure. Can't say the same for your men though. If we don't wish to incite a riot, I think it best if we lock away all of them that are currently here, Your Grace."

Howland chuckles, clunking his walking stick along the floor as he strides to the front of the table, facing Sansa directly. "I _confess_ it then, _yes,_ I had Jon Snow killed, and all of his Wildlings as well. I wasn't alone. _Lord Baelish_ helped me. We wrote ravens to each-other and planned it all out, he even had Knights of the Vale there to set things up for my men to ambush them." Howland scowls then at Petyr, "If I'm going down, you're coming with me you fucking snake."

 _I believe him, but I can't afford to get rid of Petyr yet. I still need him. But I don't need you._ "Lord Reed you will have a fair trial just like the Kingslayer. Until then I don't want to hear another word from you."

Littlefinger filches the bacon from Howland's plate and takes a big, crunchy bite out of it, watching as the Crannogmen lay down their weapons. Howland is led down the Grey Hall by twenty armed Knights of the Vale. They shove him in the back, forcing the old man to drop his walking stick and tumble to the floor in a heap. Sansa smiles warmly up at Brienne and says, "Please, my friend, take a seat and join us… or would you like a room and hearth for fire? You must be tired?"

Brienne of Tarth doesn't join her, nor does she respond. She's backing up, almost unconsciously, away from the table—away from Sansa.

Sansa's smile falls, her eyes searching Brienne's for answers. _She's looking at me like I've turned into some kind of a monster…_


	10. Theon I

Theon

Putrid, hot air fills his lungs enough to choke him out from the dark, empty void of unconsciousness. A high-pitched, terrified scream rises from somewhere overhead. Theon blinks, frozen in place, feeling jagged stone pressing against his spine, and takes in the view of the bright, blue sky above. Black smoke rises up all around him. A gasp of pain escapes Theon's lips as he struggles to lift his head up out of the rubble. As he manages to get a few inches off the ground—a passing stranger flees past and accidentally knocks Theon upside the head with the back of his boot. Spitting blood, Theon collapses as the soldier, whoever he is, keeps running down the burning road.

Everything everywhere is burning. After a minute of collecting himself again, Theon manages to climb up onto his knees and cough until he catches breath. A ringing in his left ear doesn't stop though, no matter how hard he picks his pinky through it. With a grimace, Theon wheels his head around, eyes wide with fear, taking in the Hell he had found himself in. _What happened? Where am I? Reek. I'm Reek…_ A woman and her two little girls are sprinting away from a growling, green inferno tearing down their home. Bright, golden flames consume a brothel while the piercing cries of whores trapped inside desperately pray to the Seven Gods for help. A pair of Unsullied are aiding each-other stagger across the battlefield where countless bodies from both sides clog up the streets.

Memories from earlier that day trickle back into his mind as he comes upon the biggest smoldering crater in King's Landing—the place where the Red Keep once overlooked the Narrow Sea. _The Red Keep is gone, as if the Gods plucked it out of existence—only it wasn't the Gods that caused this._ _It was_ _wildfire… Reek._

Watching the wildfire shimmer and wave all around him, Theon remembers how it had sprung up from beneath the Keep's stairway and swallowed everyone standing on it whole, including the dragon and his queen… including his sister. With a prick of pain, Theon sees it all over again—Yara staring at him one second, and the next her flesh is gone, revealing the skeleton beneath—and Theon was thrown off his feet a second after… It was the last thing he can remember and it's all he sees now. _Yara…_

The heat from the green flames burn his face enough to make him turn away and flee like everyone else. He reaches up and absently fingers his forehead as he runs; his fingertips come away red and glistening. A second later, blood leaks down into his eye, blinding him. He brushes at it with his wrist—bumping into a man twice his size.

The Dothraki already has his Arakh in hand and wastes no time in snarling at Theon, lifting his curved blade, and making a swing for his neck. Startled, Theon only has time to say, _"W-Wait!"_ and lift up his hand to try and block the attack—

The arakh never makes it, for the muscular arm wielding the blade is abruptly severed at the elbow by a man even larger than the Dothraki—a huge, round, bronze-skinned man covered head-to-toe in long scars. Strong Belwas grins as the Dothraki shrieks and clutches the stump of his arm in utter disbelief. The mute mercenary lifts his own Arakh and delivers the finishing slice across the Dothraki's throat—spilling a river of blood down his chest before he collapses in the rubble.

Spluttering from shock, Theon backs away from his savior in fear. Strong Belwas only casts him a peevish grin before bounding ahead, carelessly stomping on the bodies of fallen soldiers, beckoning Theon to follow him. The young Greyjoy gulps and does so, scrambling to keep up. "W-Wait—Wait for me!" he calls but Strong Belwas is already eyeing a group of people trapped underneath a pile of rocks and fire. Theon slows down and watches in amazement as the giant, fat, scarred man rushes in and lifts up a burning beam of wood with his bare hands, allowing the trapped people beneath to crawl out and escape the fire's clutches.

One of the rescued, a pretty woman with a face covered in black soot, crumbles to her knees and Theon kneels down to help her back up. With tears in her eyes, she looks at him and moans, "My _poor_ baby—she— _she_ …"

"We'll… we'll rescue her—where is she?" Theon impassively asks, blinking rapidly between the woman and Strong Belwas, who releases the smoldering beam and examines his smoking hands with a befuddled grin.

The woman throws her hands up and pushes Theon away, her moans sinking into pitiful sobs. Bewildered and exhausted, Theon falls from the shove onto his butt, landing on a particularly pointy rock. " _She's gone! She's gone!_ " The woman weeps, stumbling over and collapsing against a broken wall. "She burned before I could _reach_ her! Those dragons _burned my baby!_ "

Theon knows he should feel sympathy for her, but his mind is circling a giant gutter, and his body doesn't feel like it has the energy. Strong Belwas approaches them oblivious to either of their plights, showing Theon the fresh burns still sizzling across his palms. Theon grimaces and lifts his arm up to see if the mute will help him stand. He does, and Theon thanks him. "We have to get out of here, Belwas. Do you know where… where our _army_ is?"

The giant, silent bald man shrugs his boulder-sized shoulders and points ominously all around the street, signifying that everyone was running around in a panic, making it impossible to tell where their forces might've gathered. Unsullied and Lannister soldiers both lay intermingled across the battle-worn road ahead and behind them. A few dazed, passing people are meandering between them all. A sinking feeling in his heart informs Theon that his Queen is most likely dead. _That would explain why the dragons went on a rampage, at least… Reek… Reek… How long was I unconscious for?_

Strong Belwas grabs Theon around his bicep and yanks him along. One of Theon's legs feels noodlier than the other, and drags with every step. Theon takes one last look at the weeping woman before they round the corner into a courtyard full of burning plants and more dead bodies. The crash of dishes being thrown against a wall reaches his ears, but Theon can't tell which house its coming from. They wander into the center of the yard just as a door to one of the homes bursts open and a trio of laughing, half-naked, muscular men exit. Their hair is black, braided, and dangles past their shoulders. Each of them has dark, sunken eyes and wide, dirty grins behind grizzly beards. _More Dothraki… but they're on our side. Reek. What are they doing?_ The leader of the pack has his hands full of gold and silver jewelry, necklaces spilling out of his fingers. The largest of the three has black paint across his face, and immediately notices Theon and Strong Belwas approaching. The third Dothraki is dragging a kicking and screaming child out of the house, hissing unintelligible words in her ear while groping her chest.

Strong Belwas comes to a halt, scowling a the Dothraki, and Theon bumps into him. "What are you doing?" Theon asks, but his mute partner ignores him.

The Dothraki leader mutters something to his friends before coming out from the house's shadow to join them in the yard. "Hello." The Dothraki grins with a wave, striding like he owned the city.

Strong Belwas points his arakh at him, and the Dothraki stops, hands on his hips, eyeing the curved blade with a raised brow. Theon sees that half this man's teeth are gold, and feels a nervous stirring in the pit of his gut.

The Dothraki laughs and takes out his own Arakh and spins it skillfully around in his grasp. The other two grunt and watch. Theon doesn't understand. He slips past Belwas and lifts his hands up in the air, shouting, "Wait—Wait! We're on the same side!"

"Weak boy, no." The Dothraki says, whipping his braided hair over his shoulder again. "Kisha hash vo _serve_ Mai ki Dragons. No more _sides_."

Theon shakes his head, not understanding. Strong Belwas shoves him aside and faces the Dothraki with a bold smirk. He slaps at his big, protruding belly and chuckles warmly. The Dothraki scowls, appearing not to appreciate being made light of. Before Theon can do anything more, the warrior from across the sea charges—and Strong Belwas welcomes it, not even lifting his weapon to defend himself. Theon gasps and the little girl they have captive shrieks as the Dothraki impales Belwas with his curved sword, sinking the tip of its crescent deep between the folds of Belwas's blubbery chest.

The kind of horror Theon feels when he sees this happen is like a sharp, spike of pain in his heart—suddenly he sees Yara being burned alive all over again, and Theon releases a howl of anguish, slipping backward, away from Strong Belwas and the Dothraki. Looking down at the blade in his chest, Theon expects Belwas to collapse and die… but the fat man just takes the Arakh with his bare hand, slicing all his burnt fingers across its edge, and rips it out of his chest with ease while the Dothraki struggles just to keep his hold over his weapon; but Belwas proves why they call him Strong, and with sheer will, wrestles the Arakh from him. In fear, the Dothraki retreats to his two companions who draw their weapons and release their concubine. The girl flees on her hands and knees the first chance she gets. Theon can hardly believe his eyes, gawking at Strong Belwas as he laughs and slaps his belly, rubbing the blood from his open wounds around on his skin as if it was soap. _A blow like that should've Reeked him. Why did he just stand there and let him Reek?_

The Dothraki who had been groping the child earlier spits and grunts, "Yeri ovah ma _uglo_ , ma anha ha yeri diaf ajjalan!" and without waiting for the others, charges Strong Belwas with his Arakh raised high. This time Belwas doesn't just stand there, he lifts his Arakh and blocks the attack—steel ringing against steel—and counters with a kick to the Dothraki's gut that stuns him. Strong Belwas laughs heartily as his Arakh cuts the warrior's head off. It tumbles to the floor in a spray of blood, wrapped up in its long, braided pony-tail, eyes still wide with shock and staring at Theon.

"Yeri'll pay ha ki!" snarls the disarmed Dothraki and he takes his other partner's blade from him, determined to have his vengeance. Strong Belwas pounds his way to them, and his footsteps seem to quake the earth itself. The Dothraki roar and swing their blades, each slicing two long, deep gashes across Belwas's belly—but that's all they ever do before Belwas grabs them both by their heads and swings them together like pendulums. The result sounds like two rocks being smashed together, causing an explosion of brain matter and gore unlike anything Theon was expecting—both Dothraki's skulls caved in against one-another as they slump to Belwas's knees.

Strong Belwas wipes his hands together and turns back to Theon with a big, wide smile—the kind of smile that reminds Theon of his old master… _He loves the violence… Fighting, it's all he Reeks for, this man… Strong Belwas._ Theon had heard very little of him, only that he once served his uncle, Victarion, and that Queen Daenerys had decided to pardon him for his service. _Now I Reek why. This guy's a monster._ Clearing his throat, Theon says, "Those people were on our side, you know. They're our reinforcements…"

Belwas shrugs and points down the street ahead toward the dockyard beyond the giant city wall. Looking up, Theon can't help but feel a sense of dread at being back here already. _I need to find a Silent Sister to Reek my injuries. I can barely fucking Reek, let alone Reek._

As they make way for the wall, they're joined by a group of injured and limping Unsullied. Some have their armor on still, while others are nearly naked, having their armor ripped or burned off during the battle, revealing stab wounds and bruises. One Unsullied's face is a wreckage of its former self, no longer resembling that of a human's. His eyes, his lips, his nose, and his ears—all of it is gone—replaced with a black, smoldering ruin. Theon stops when he hears one of the Unsullied whisper to the faceless Unsullied, saying, "Ȳdra daor worry, _Turgo Nudho_ , īlon'll jiōragon ao arlī ȳgha."

 _What are they saying? I wish I could Reek Valyrian…_ Theon frowns and looks back at the smoldering, ruined city in their wake. _What did we even fight for? What did my sister die for? What was the Reek of it all?_

"I'll tell you why, it's because you didn't listen." hisses Ramsay Bolton in his ear. Naturally, Theon stops and gawks when he sees his old master standing beside him, just as real as Strong Belwas and the injured Unsullied he traveled with. Ramsay's bright, bulging eyes are alight with glee, and his grin shows all his pointy little teeth, perfectly white compared to Theon's. He wraps a loving arm over Theon's shoulder and chuckles, saying, "You didn't think you'd be rid of me that easy, did you, Reek?"

Strong Belwas stops and looks back at Theon with a curious raised brow, for Theon had stopped in his tracks and was mumbling _"Reek… Reek… Reek…"_ over and over under his breath, his glazed eyes staring down at the ground. Perhaps if Belwas could speak, he'd ask if Theon was alright…

Luckily for Theon, Belwas noticed something that he did not. When the fat, scarred, eunuch suddenly turns on his heel and lifts his Arakh, pointing it at Theon's chest, Theon is abruptly snapped out of his trance—and glares up at Belwas in terror and confusion. As the fat man lifts his blade, preparing to strike, Theon flinches and screams, _"Reek!"_

Strong Belwas flings his Arakh through the air, and the blade sinks into the armored plating of a giant in gold slowly rising from the debris of a broken building a few feet behind Theon… Realizing what was happening, Theon dives to get out of the way as Belwas plows past. The giant in golden armor appears unfazed by the Arakh in his chest—similar to how Belwas had acted when the Dothraki had attacked him, only this one has a quiet, ominous feeling about him. Then, as Belwas closes in, Theon remembers who this giant is—and screams for Belwas to stop, but instead of shouting " _Stop_!" Theon shouts, " _Reek_!" and Belwas, unfortunately, keeps going…

The Mountain dislodges the Arakh from his chest, and a torrent of black sludge pours out from the wound. Theon notices he's covered in it, staining his gold armor black. A row of deep, sinking caves line the Mountain's armor where Drogon had sunk his teeth into, and one of his arms dangles limply at his side—yet despite all this, Ser Gregor Clegane doesn't appear the least bit fatigued. With fists the size of a man's skull, The Mountain catches Strong Belwas by his hands and the two face-off, neither budging an inch, fingers interlocked. Belwas growls, no longer grinning his casual grin, and delivers a powerful head-butt to the Mountain's helm. He might as well have headbutted a rock wall, though, because the Mountain merely rears his head back, bends his knees, and causes Belwas to lose his footing—

"No!" Theon shouts as the Mountain takes his pummeled glove and pounds his fists into Belwas's face. The fat man goes down on his side in a puddle of his own blood—the Mountain climbing on top of him, beating him with his mailed fists over and over and over…

Theon can't stand watching this, and decides to take matters into his own hands. _That's it, Reek!_ Theon finds a sword lying beside a fallen Lannister and rushes in, screaming _"REEK!"_ at the top of his lungs, aiming for the Mountain's neckline. He misses, and his sword bounces off his gold armor. It's enough, however, to capture his attention. The Mountain releases Belwas and rises once more to face Theon down. Heart skipping, eyes wide, Theon's realizes this would be it—this will be his last second of life—as the Mountain reaches out to grab him—

" _You raped her, you murdered her, you killed her children!"_

The words come from somewhere far away, but they're just loud enough to be made out. In his terror, the words sounded like nonsense to Theon. They were not nonsense for the Mountain, however, who's hand freezes inches from Theon's face… The giant remains this way, as if turned to stone… when Theon looks over his shoulder to find the owner of the voice, his eyes fall upon Arya Stark, and she isn't alone.

Striding alongside her is Tyrion Lannister. Both of them are approaching at a steady pace. The Dwarf has his arms behind the small of his back, a deep grimace on his face as he eyes the destruction around them. Arya, however, has her eyes dead set on the Mountain… "That's right, you big stupid shit, stop causing so much trouble or I'll repeat those words until your head explodes."

The Mountain groans and lowers his hand in a defeated sort of way. Theon lets out a gasp and falls onto his ass for what must've been the tenth time that day. _Arya… is that really Arya? That… that can't be her… Arya's… she's…_ She's missing a hand, for starters, and her face… bandages are wrapped around her cheeks, covering most of it from sight, but Theon can still see the burns just beneath the surface.

Ramsay squats down next him, eyeing Arya with a grin. "She's quite something, Reek. It's too bad I never managed to get my hands on her."

"Told you he's still alive." Arya says to Tyrion with a cocky smirk. The Dwarf just scowls, and approaches the injured Unsullied. When he does, Tyrion's face falls apart in despair.

"Get him to _the Red Wind_ right away. Don't let Missandei see him yet…"

The Unsullied carrying their faceless companion nod in solemn silence and continue to venture outside the walls for the shoreline. Tyrion and Arya turn their attention on them now, and Theon's fears are confirmed when Arya catches his eye and immediately recognizes him.

"Theon." She says, almost in a whisper. It's not a question, either, more of a statement. Her expression impossible to read, Arya's eyes narrow as she closes in. Theon backs away, scrambling to get up on his feet.

"Ah, yes, I forgot you might know each other." Tyrion says, eyeing them both, then glaring down at Belwas. "Is he still breathing?"

In response, Belwas grunts and rolls over on the ground. Despite his many, _many_ wounds, Strong Belwas barks with a deep, rumbling laughter and gets back up on his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. Tyrion casts the strange mute a side-ways smile before looking up at the Mountain. "Are you sure he'll listen to you?"

Arya blinks and nods, still glaring at Theon. "Yes, he'll listen. Qyburn put a spell on the Mountain. It controls him."

"Well, with everything I've seen, I suppose spells shouldn't come as a surprise." Tyrion sighs, "We should leave now, Arya, before this place gets any worse. Theon, if you're able, would you like to accompany us?"

"No. He stays." Arya says coldly.

"He's part of our Queen's forces, Arya… and if I'm not mistaken, the last living Greyjoy. Regardless of your personal feelings about him, we need him." Tyrion tells her, "Of course, I have no way of stopping you from killing him—but if you did, I would have to reconsider hiring you… which means no Jon Snow."

Arya frowns and glares at the Dwarf this time. Without a word, Arya storms off, and the Mountain follows her like an obedient dog. Theon shuffles his feet, feeling awkwardly grateful for Tyrion's help. "What is she doing here?"

Tyrion laughs and says, "She's the one who killed my sweet sister. I'm amazed she didn't kill you too, after what you did to her brothers…"

"I—I didn't…" Theon mumbles but Tyrion waves his hand dismissively and tells him to hurry along—their boat will be leaving shortly.


	11. Arya II

Arya

The boat they sail in is a simple long-boat, fit to support ten men. Tyrion and Arya are each small enough to sit on a plank side-by-side, and Arya takes in the strong stench of alcohol emanating from the dwarf. Theon crouches near the bow, hugging himself, his eyes never leaving Arya. The rest of the seats are occupied by the Unsullied, The Mountain, and Strong Belwas. On the way into King's Landing, it had just been Arya and Tyrion. Sailing to _the Red Wind_ , the longboat is filled to capacity. Arya keeps her maimed arm elevated over the edge of the boat while she frowns at everyone. An uncomfortable taciturnity stifles the men as the Unsullied begin to row out from the exhausted shoreline full of dead bodies, burning arrows, and curling smoke.

Behind her, the Mountain sits as still as a corpse, his red eyes glaring ahead at _the Red Wind_ a mile away. Tyrion wasn't lying, he looked like he'd been trampled by a thousand horses. His golden armor is cracked and caved into his chest forming a row where the dragon's teeth must've bitten him, yet even though such wounds would kill a normal man, The Mountain doesn't even appear bothered by them. Black, shiny sludge pours out from underneath his armor, filling a puddle around his boots. Tyrion grimaces over his shoulder at the giant, clearly distrustful of Arya's new bodyguard. "He smells awful." Tyrion remarks, plugging his nose.

Arya smirks at him, "So do you."

Tyrion frowns and lifts one of his arms, taking a quick whiff of his pits and recoiling. "Noted… Believe it or not, there was a time I couldn't go half a day without bathing."

"Try going two years without bathing properly…" mutters Arya, her smirk disappearing behind a somber scowl.

She can feel him staring at her so she looks away, over at the injured, faceless Unsullied being supported by his brethren. Even after all she's seen, the sight of the man's head encased in burns disturbs her. _At least I still have my eyes and mouth and ears. That poor man has nothing… he'll never talk again, never see again, never hear again…_ "What was his name?" Arya asks Tyrion quietly.

"You mean what _is_ his name?" Tyrion frowns.

"Doesn't matter. He's as good as dead already…"

The other Unsullied hear her and cast Arya dark, threatening glares that don't scare her one bit. Tyrion sighs heavily and says, "Remember what we discussed earlier—about your mouth going off? Now's one of those times."

"It's true, though, look at him." Arya says, "If that happened to you, would you want to live?"

"Undoubtedly, no. I would not." Tyrion says, "But it's not up to you or I… There are people who care about him that need to be informed first…" Arya remembers the handmaiden with Daenerys crying about her missing lover. _What was his name again? It was something odd._

"Keep little girl quiet." growls one of the Unsullied soldiers in a thick accent, his helm discarded so that when he spoke, Arya could tell who it was right away; a skinny, bruised man with half a lip missing. Three long scars are wrapped around his neck… He glares daggers into Arya as he says, "She know not what she speak of."

Arya frowns, about to open her mouth, when Tyrion beats her to it, and silences her with one sentence. "He is their Commander, Arya, and has been since Daenerys rescued them from slavery."

"He's more than Commander," The scarred Unsullied says defensively, "He's our friend... Our _brother_."

Arya slackens and feels a swell of pity, for at the mention of _brother_ , her mind automatically goes to Jon… "I'm sorry." She says, and she means it.

Their longboat isn't the only one rowing back to the fleet on the horizon. All around them Arya spots hundreds of ships carrying wounded just like theirs. There is no celebration over the victory in the battle, for the battle could hardly be considered a victory when the city burns and its people flee into the countryside… Never has Blackwater Bay been this silent. Beneath the water, Arya can see the ghostly remains of sunken ships from some battle long ago. Tyrion too is looking down into the water, his eyes glazed over, remembering…

For a while it's quiet, and Arya is left alone with her thoughts. _My list is done. There's no names left to kill… The Mountain was the only one left, and he's mine now to use as I see fit. I could have him kill himself in the most horrendous way imaginable, or I could keep him and use him as a weapon… A weapon for what? There's no one left I need to kill… I just want to see Jon and Sansa and Bran again… Would they even recognize me anymore?_

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Tyrion asks, drawing her out of her trance.

"Maybe."

"The spell you used to control The Mountain earlier… those words, how did you hear them?"

"What do you mean?"

"How did you figure out those words do what they do?"

"I heard Qyburn use them to calm him down from slaughtering people..." Arya answers quietly, one fist clenching while her other wrist stings at the effort to clench a hand there that no longer exists. _Gendry…_ "I don't know what those words meant, but I said them and they worked. Cersei had me in her dungeon and I escaped with _his_ help."

"Those were Oberyn Martell's last words to him during my trial by combat." Tyrion smirks, eyeing the still giant behind him again wearily, "Strange… If Qyburn was still alive, I'd have a horde of questions for him…"

"Like what?"

"Like how did Qyburn stop Oberyn's poison from killing him? Or _did it_ kill him, and did Qyburn somehow bring back his body? Forgive me, but, this man is not the Mountain I've known my whole life. He's hardly a shell of his former self… the real Mountain would never take orders from an old man or a little girl… so what exactly did Qyburn do? How did Oberyn's last words bear any effect on the spell used to control him? So many questions and no answers…"

"Sorry, I killed him." Arya smiles.

Tyrion guffaws, "Who haven't you killed?"

 _Good question. Is there anyone I'm forgetting from my list? Walder Frey, Cersei Lannister, The Mountain, Joffrey, Ser Meryn Trant, Polliver… The Hound. The Hound is still alive… somewhere in the North…_ Arya casts the Mountain a dark look, hating him even now. _He's the one who burned The Hound's face when they were kids… He's his brother. I should kill him for that… I should tell him to jump overboard… But what if he's more useful to me like this? He's not really even alive anymore…_ and then it hits her. _If it were me, I'd want my revenge … If I ever run into The Hound, I'll give him the gift of vengeance._

Upon boarding _the Red Wind_ , Arya spots their silver-haired Queen exiting her chambers alongside Missandei and two Unsullied guards. Daenerys is wearing a black gown to show she is still in mourning, and her eyes appear heavy, sunken, and tired from tears. When they see her and Tyrion, she approaches them and asks how the city looks from within.

"It's not a city anymore, Your Grace. It's a graveyard." Tyrion tells her quietly, though his eyes are on Missandei, "Perhaps we should go inside and speak privately…"

"Did you find him?" Missandei asks desperately, kneeling down and grasping Tyrion by the shoulder. Her eyes are wet and already threatening to spill over. Tyrion's lip quivers, but before he can say anything, the Unsullied they sailed with board _the Red Wind_ carrying the faceless Commander—and Arya realizes at once who he is… for Missandei stands, her mouth only slightly ajar. "No…"

"This… this isn't how I wanted you to find out—" Tyrion begins to say but Missandei flies past him. Arya steps out of the way as the handmaiden rushes over to the Unsullied—but the one with three scars around his neck stops her, grabbing her softly by her arms.

" _Let me past!_ That's _him_ , isn't it!?" Missandei demands but the Unsullied can't bring himself to answer her, for he's sobbing just as hard as she is.

Arya remembers. _Greyworm… his name is Greyworm…_

"No…" Missandei moans, collapsing to her knees. The others are unable to hide the sight of Greyworm's disfigurement from her… The Unsullied with scars kneels over to help her up, but she weakly smacks his hand away…

"Is he still alive?" Daenerys asks, suddenly appearing next to Arya and giving her a start. Having never stood this close to her, Arya can't help but admire Dany's beauty, even when she's sad.

"Yes, but it's impossible to say for how long." Tyrion answers her, "He's suffered burns everywhere, not just his face… and he'll never be able to eat or drink… he'll starve before long… if not suffocate. I'm not a Maester, but I'd say his chances are not well…"

The Unsullied supporting Greyworm allow Missandei to reach up and feel his chest with her hands. Tyrion advises they take him inside and place him under immediate medical care, along with Theon and Strong Belwas. As they do, Missandei follows them, never taking her hands off of Greyworm. _She truly loves him… even without a face…_

Daenerys stops the scarred Unsullied from going with them, asking, "Did you see it happen? Are you… _sure_ that's really him?"

"Yes, my Queen… _I_ was there." The Unsullied answers, his tone suggesting that he blames her for this.

Dany gulps before asking what she truly wanted to ask, "Was it the wildfire, or…?"

"No, my Queen… It was your Dragons." With that, the scarred Unsullied bows and leaves to join the others. Only Dany, Tyrion, Arya, and the Mountain remain above deck, the wind whipping through them. Dany's eyes are wide with horror, and when they close, a single tear spills down her cheek. Arya notices Tyrion is looking up at her like one might look at their lover when they don't know how to comfort them, and Arya can clearly see that Tyrion _is_ in love with her, even if he doesn't know it himself. _Interesting…_

"How could this happen?" Dany asks Tyrion, searching his eyes for answers.

Tyrion shakes his head sadly, "It's not your fault, Dany…"

"You're wrong. This _is_ my fault. It's all my fault. _I_ wanted to come here. _I_ made all of you come here and fight for _me_ … Drogon, Jorah, and now Greyworm… their blood is on _my_ hands."

"We don't know if Jorah is gone…" Tyrion says, though he doesn't sound hopeful.

"Varys thinks he is…" Dany sniffs, moving over to the railing of her ship to gaze at King's Landing. "He thinks he might've even been the one to cause the wildfire explosion…"

"I considered that myself… Perhaps sending a man with fire for an arm to prevent wildfire from going off wasn't the brightest idea on my part…" Tyrion says sheepishly.

"Then will you investigate this matter for me?" Dany asks, "Find the Red Woman who transformed his arm, made it the way it is… She should be on one of the ships still… Unless she truly has betrayed us and fled. If this was her plot all along…"

"I will look into it, Your Grace." Tyrion promises, "In the meantime, I'd like to introduce you to my sister's ex-Queensguard, Ser Gregor Clegane, otherwise known as The Mountain. No longer does he serve The Mad Queen, but this little girl… oddly enough."

Arya straightens up a little and glances at The Mountain towering beside her, tall enough to cast a shadow over her completely. Dany studies the giant for a moment before asking, "Can he speak?"

"No." Arya answers, "He doesn't need to eat or drink either, well, not anymore. He might need to piss and shit but I promise to take him for walks."

Tyrion can't help but crack a grin. Dany however remains cold and simply nods, "See to it that he doesn't cause any trouble or I'll make sure my Dragons finish the job."

"We'll behave." she swears, though when Dany turns around, Arya casts a wink at Tyrion. He returns it with a horrified, curt shake of his head before grinning up at Dany and following her back inside. Arya remains up on deck with The Mountain and watches the city burn while high above in the sky, Rhaegal and Viserion sing laments for their fallen brother.


	12. Jon II

Jon

The march south of the Twins for King's Landing would be nearly two week's ride on horseback. Jon rides at the head of the vanguard alongside Lord Edmure Tully, Ser Davos Seaworth, and the Red Priest Thoros of Myr. Behind them ride one thousand Tully soldiers, most of whom are farmers, stable boys, smiths, and bakers. The rare exception is an experienced knight or a battle-hardened guard, and Jon can tell which ones are which just by looking them in the eye. Riding alongside them are two hundred Brotherhood without Banners, given horses from the Tullys as tribute for destroying one of the Twin's towers. Now men like Thoros ride one of the fastest breeds in the Riverlands, but even with the wind whipping his hair, there's no erasing the sagging, depressed look on his face. _He misses his friend. I can tell whenever we speak, he resents me for taking Lord Beric Dondarrion away from him…_ Davos has his eyes on Thoros, skeptically watching him.

Their first stop is in Seagard. Lord Edmure suggested it as it's home to his most powerful Bannerman, making it a safe place to stop and rest as well as resupply. Protruding out from a cliff's edge over the ocean, Seagard is a small, fortuitous city ruled by House Mallister; and they have always been aligned with the Tullys. It was here that the bulk of Edmure's army originated. Lord Mallister is a shrewd, older man with a thick, white goatee around a broad chin. His wispy eyebrows hang in strings across his beady, blue eyes and he wears a golden helm with wings carved along the sides. Across his steel-plated chest is the sigil of a silver eagle on a purple shield, and carved underneath it is the Mallister's words: " _Above the rest_ " When he meets Jon for the first time as they're riding through his giant gates, his wrinkled eyes study Jon with suspicion and ignore Edmure, who tries to greet him like they're old friends, "Jason, thank you for opening your gates to us."

"Didn't have much of a choice," grouses Lord Jason Mallister, still conspicuous of Jon. "Finished your stupid vendetta against the Twins, did you Ed?"

Lord Edmure blushes and frowns. Despite being Lord of the Riverlands, Edmure is cowed by Lord Mallister, who had been long-time friends with his father, Hoster Tully. Edmure stammers as he says, "Y-Yes, well, after some deliberation, I decided it best if the Twins remain standing—"

"They're not exactly _twins_ anymore." Davos interrupts, catching Lord Mallister's attention. "Lord Edmure annihilated one of the towers. I suppose we'll have to call the fortress something else now; until it's reconstructed anyway."

Lord Mallister actually cracks a grin with a twinkle in his eye, as he says, "I figured as much. No great loss. Those towers are a stain on our history… I don't know who you are, though, so I cannot take your word on this. Lord Edmure, is this true?"

Lord Edmure looks like a kid again getting in trouble for stealing candy. He frowns and stomps his foot down, saying, "I had every right after what the Freys did to _my_ family—and to _your_ family, Lord Mallister! When I came to you for help, you aided me in giving me half your men. Don't tell me now you frown upon my decision."

"I frowned on it then and I frown on it now, but I couldn't let my friend's idiot son go into battle without an army. Hoster would never forgive me…" Lord Mallister brushes past Edmure then and walks straight up to Jon Snow, unabashed. " _You_ … I _know_ you, don't I?"

"We've never met." Jon tells him earnestly, and he bows his head out of respect for the old man. "My name is Jon…"

"Jon _what_?" Lord Mallister asks, cocking his brow.

Jon glances at Davos for guidance, and receives a reassuring nod, before answering. " _Targaryen_."

Lord Mallister's wizened eyes widen and his lips part, uttering " _Ah_ …" under his breath. "So, the rumors from the North are true."

"Rumors?" Jon asks.

"Aye. Tall tales about how the Lord Commander of The Wall became King of the North and then lost it all to his sister, cast down because of his name…" Lord Mallister eyes Lord Edmure and snorts. "Did you know this?"

"He informed me of it, yes." Lord Edmure grumbles, "But he claims that he is still King of the North."

"Is that so?" Lord Mallister smirks, "Somehow I doubt the Lords of the North would be pardonable once they found out you're not a Stark, I imagine they were already hardly tolerant of you being a Bastard. Those opinionated old fools can't see past their own aged traditions."

"You strike me as a man who appreciates honesty more than anything, Lord Mallister." Davos pipes in, speaking calmly and looking Mallister in the eye when he speaks. The old man nods, and Davos gives Jon a reassuring look.

Jon sighs, _I can't keep this lie up forever,_ and says, "It's true. I am no longer King of the North…"

Lord Edmure gasps, his face turning pale, gawking at Jon. " _What?_ You—you _lied_ to me?"

"Don't look so surprised, Edmure." Lord Mallister chuckles, "It's not becoming of the Riverlands Lord to be dumbfounded by such an obvious lie. Color me impressed, Jon Targaryen, you managed to stop my friend's son from pointlessly wasting his resources as well as mine. Thanks to you, my men have returned to Seagard safely. I welcome you and your companions inside. Let us share bread and discuss politics while we have wine in our bellies."

Jon blinks, surprised and relieved. He hadn't expected Lord Mallister to be so… _pardonable_ about this. Edmure too is shocked, a thick vein growing down his forehead. "You can't be _serious_! He's no King—just a beggar and a liar! I should've struck him down as soon as he—"

"Why are you yelling at _me_?" Lord Mallister interrupts with a chortle, "Yell at him, he's the one who wronged you. I couldn't give two shits—and before you go acting self-righteous, Ed, need I remind you that we wouldn't be in this situation had you been a good little prisoner and left The Blackfish to defend your father's castle."

Edmure spits at this, " _Good little prisoner?!_ You have no idea what they did to me! What they threatened to do if I—"

The backhand is faster than Jon can see coming—all he hears is a _SMACK!_ as Lord Mallister's hand swiftly strikes Lord Edmure across the face. Suddenly the good cheer in the old man's expression is gone, replaced with cold fury. Jon, Davos, and Thoros freeze, watching as Edmure stumbles, clutching his jaw, tears in his eyes. Lord Mallister's eyes are teary as well as he growls, "Do not tell me what I do and don't know, boy. My son was one of those prisoners. I'll never forget what they did to Patrek…"

"And what did _you_ do when the Freys came for you holding _him_ hostage?!" Edmure shouts, "You did the same damn thing my uncle did, and look where it got Patrek!"

Lord Mallister looks down at the mud, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword automatically… but he doesn't draw it. "I'd do it again, you ignorant shitcake. I loved my son more than life itself, but there's a time when a man has to choose between love and duty… You better pray you never have to make a decision like that, you may not find it so fucking easy."

Edmure shakes his head in disgust, then glares at Jon and Davos. Finally, he wipes the mud off from his armor and cape and straightens up. _Will he still lend me his support now? Or have I lost any hope of having an army?_ Lord Edmure notices Lord Mallister handling his sword and a nervous, worried look crosses over his face. "I am Lord of the Riverlands, and striking me is treason…"

"Then you better hold your tongue or I'll have to commit treason again." Lord Mallister warns him before smiling over at Jon. "Enough of this drama. Come inside. I need a bloody drink."

Striding through the courtyard, Jon watches as Mallister's men reunite with their loved ones. Children scream their Dad's names and run up to hug the soldiers, embracing them tightly. Seagard's fortress towers over them, casting a massive shadow on the snow-peppered landscape. Lord Jason Mallister leads them inside where warmth splashes Jon's face. A fire is burning in the hearth where an old woman sits beside herself in a rocking chair, her back to them. Mallister guides them past the crone, up a flight of stone steps, into the dining hall. Thoros commands the Brotherhood to guard Seagard's perimeter before parting with them. In the end, it's Mallister, Jon, Edmure, Davos, and Thoros sitting at the head of the hall while Mallister's servants bring them dishes of bread and goblets of mead. Jon prefers not to drink, but declines sharing this information, and takes a swig of his cup.

"Thank you, you may leave us now. We can refill our own drinks." Lord Mallister nods to his serving wenches as they bring in a platter of roast beef, steamed carrots, and fresh cod. Thoros of Myr digs into his beef like a wildling while Davos gently eats his carrots first. Jon stares at the meal before him, utensils in hand, and feels a strange, empty feeling in his gut. _Why does this not appeal to me anymore? If I'd been served this at The Wall, I'd be full for days…_

Jason Mallister is stuffing his face full of cod when he notices Jon not touching the food and pauses. "I know you must be hungry."

"I am, and I'm grateful for this, Lord Mallister… but…" Jon's brow pulls into a knot, "I have business I'd like to discuss. I didn't come here just to return your soldiers to you."

"You mean it's not to be rid of my maddening liege lord? I thought for sure you were trying to pawn him off on me." Lord Mallister grins and Lord Edmure scowls.

"I need Lord Edmure and his men just as much as I need yours." Jon tells him.

"Ah, so that's it, eh? You're worried now that we know you're not truly _King of the North_ we'll feed you and kick you to the gutter. Perhaps I should. Might be wiser in the long run." Lord Mallister says thoughtfully, spiking a piece of cod on the end of his knife and lifting it to his teeth.

Davos looks up from his plate in alarm. Jon says, "If that is your choice, then so be it. I plan on marching on King's Landing and taking the Iron Throne from the Mad Queen. To do that, I'll need men… and not all of those men will survive."

"Perhaps all of them will survive, perhaps all will die, such are the risks of war. Robb Stark thought he was marching on King's Landing, and I thought he was too—I allied myself with him until the very end, and not once did we ever reach the capital. We barely made a dent." Lord Mallister sighs, "What makes you think you stand a chance? You have maybe five hundred Brotherhood, and you left half of them behind to defend the Twins if my scouts count correctly. Why should I risk my men's lives?"

"If I ordered you to, you'd have to." Lord Edmure says stiffly.

"Don't be so sure about that." Lord Mallister growls, shifting his beady eyes on Edmure, "The only reason you had an army to attack the Twins with was because you came groveling to me and evoked your father's name to derive sympathy. If you had the gall to order me around, I'd throw you in my dungeon and make sure you never saw the light of day again."

Lord Edmure looks like he might cry, and uncomfortably takes a sip of his mead. Lord Mallister rounds on Jon again and laughs, "Not like he would order me to help the likes of you after you lied to him. Ha!"

"Lord Mallister, I understand your reserve. Trust me, I'd look at it the same way in your boots." Davos says, shifting uneasily in his chair, "But the Mad Queen's reign has gone on long enough, as have the Lannister's. We need a new ruler, a King who can unite the Seven Kingdoms again to face the true enemy beyond The Wall."

"Beyond _The Wall_ , you say?" Lord Mallister tilts his head back, gulping down his wine. "You must be referring to the White Walkers, then…"

Jon leans in, saying, "So you've heard of them?"

"Course I have. The old witch you passed by earlier doesn't shut up about them." Lord Mallister casts Jon a dark look, and Jon remembers the old woman and wonders who she might be. He looks back at the doors they came through but she is not there, doubtlessly still sitting beside the hearth beneath them. Lord Mallister refills his cup and says, "Tales of the White Walkers have been around for centuries. It's just the way of the world."

"They're not just tales, My Lord. I've seen them. I've fought them. I've killed one for myself." Jon explains, "The Night King is their leader, and as night gathers so do the Dead. Winter is here because they are back. I know it… and something tells me you know it too?"

Lord Mallister's hand quivers as he lifts his goblet to drink. "Aye… I can tell you're not lying… What if I do believe? How are you going to stop them?"

"The only way we can, _together_. Everyone working together instead of fighting each other." Jon says, feeling a strength inside him he never quite felt before.

"That sounds nice, but I've heard it all before…"

"I'm a Targaryen. I have the birthright to the Iron Throne."

"You might find it hard to back that up nowadays, my boy. Do you have any evidence of your true heritage besides the word of Northerners? The rest of the Realm will not just accept that you—a Bastard for House Stark—is truly a Bastard for House Targaryen. I myself find it hard to believe…"

"So did Edmure and his men." Thoros says with a smirk, "Then our King here walked through flames and proved it."

"Is this true?" Lord Mallister looks sideways at Edmure for confirmation. The Lord of Riverrun is deep in his cups and scowling at them like they'd forgotten his nameday.

"Of course, it's bloody true. You think I'd have believed him if he hadn't had done that?"

"Yes, _you'd_ believe anything." Lord Mallister barks, and Thoros laughs as well. "Well if you can walk through fire then that's good enough for me. The Targaryens were always boasting about how 'fire cannot harm a dragon, blablabla.' Maybe you can show me sometime, that would be quite a sight to see in my old age."

"Does this mean you'll help me?" Jon asks hopefully.

"I would, but there's one little problem you haven't addressed. How exactly do you plan to take a throne that no longer exists?"

This time Davos isn't the only one to stop eating and look at Mallister in alarm. Even Lord Edmure drops his knife and gapes at his father's friend in shock. "What do you mean?" asks Davos sharply.

"Haven't you heard?" Lord Mallister seems surprised as well that none of them knew what he was talking about. "Daenerys Targaryen landed in King's Landing nearly a fortnight ago. She laid the city to waste and destroyed the Red Keep. They say her dragons burned everything from the Mad Queen's army to the Small-folk in their homes. They say she's gone mad with power, and cares nothing about Westeros and our politics… We have another conquest on our hands. How have none of you heard this?"

"I knew she'd landed but I didn't know she'd gone so far…" Jon says, his fists clenching. _Damn it, Daenerys, after I told the North you weren't here to conquer us, you go and do something like this? Just what kind of a woman are you?_

Davos lifts his maimed hand and points a stubbed finger at Mallister, "Wait, you're saying King's Landing is…"

"Rubble." Mallister finishes, taking another bite out of his cod. "Unbelievable… yet with everything happening, I suppose it was inevitable. Queen Cersei cursed that place when she murdered her children to take the throne for herself. Now she's dead and we have another Mad Queen to deal with, only this one brought dragons."

Jon was not expecting this. _If I cannot take the Iron Throne, then how will I be King and unite the people? A King without a throne is no King…_

"If she came here to conquer, why would she destroy the one thing she needed to rule?" Davos asks, a trickle of sweat sliding down his forehead, "It doesn't make much sense…"

"I haven't had the pleasure to ask her." Lord Mallister grins, "Though perhaps you will if King's Landing is still your destination?"

Jon asks, "Is she still there?"

"I can't say for certain. My scouts have been forced to flee the area surrounding King's Landing because of the Dothraki."

" _The Dothraki_?" Lord Edmure blurts out, "What in the bloody hell are they doing across the Narrow Sea?"

"She brought them with her." Lord Mallister simply says, amused by Edmure's reaction. "Seems our new Queen was better prepared for war than you, Jon Targaryen."

 _Not for long._ "If this is true, then I will ensure she faces justice for all of the innocent lives lost… But I will need your help, Lord Mallister."

"Now hold on a minute, _I am Lord of the Riverlands!_ " Lord Edmure declares angrily, "I will decide whether or not we go to war, not Lord Mallister. He is my Bannerman, and I will not throw away any more innocent lives for a lying traitorous worm like you!"

Lord Mallister calmly wipes his mouth off with a napkin and says, "You're Lord of Riverrun, _not_ the Riverlands. _That_ title is given only by the King or Queen, and your birthright was stripped away the moment you gave Riverrun to the Freys, so unless you have a letter from Cersei I don't know about, you best shut your mouth. I will not warn you again."

"I will not stand for this!" Lord Edmure shouts, throwing his goblet down on the table and standing up from his chair, "If I am not welcome here then I will return home. Bugger you, your new King, and the dragon whore from across the Sea! I will not get involved in this!"

Mallister laughs, "You were fine with going to war before? Is one innocent lie all it takes to turn the great Lord Edmure into a sniveling girl?"

"It was not an _innocent lie!_ He manipulated me!" Lord Edmure cries in exasperation.

"And whose fault is that?" Lord Mallister growls, standing up and getting right in Edmure's face—noses mere inches apart. Edmure tries to back away but is pinned against the table. "You were always a spineless little twerp. The Blackfish tried to make you a man because Hoster didn't know how. I tried, too, in my own way; but you just continue bleeding between your legs like my damned wife."

Lord Edmure reaches for his sword handle as if by a whim, and Lord Mallister copies him. Both swords begin sliding from sheathes. Jon finds himself standing all of the sudden, and shouting, " _My Lords_ , calm yourselves _!"_ His sudden intrusion gives both men pause, their swords half-drawn, neither taking their eyes off one-another. "There are bigger problems at hand, and like I said before; the only way we'll make it through this is _together!_ Do either one of you wish to become a dragon's meal? Do either one of you wish to bend the knee to a Queen like this? Or will you help me defend our country from this attack? Will you help me seek justice for the fallen? Or will you stand here and kill each other for petty squabbles like children?"

" _What gives you the right—?!"_ Edmure begins to shout, when Mallister interrupts him—

"Let the boy speak…"

Jon is grateful, but has trouble finding the words to continue. _I have to be honest with them. I lied to my Bannermen in the North and they betrayed me in the end for it… I'm sorry, Davos, I wish I could've told you this privately, but something tells me now is the time…_

With a heavy sigh, Jon says, "When I was in the fire, I heard a voice…"


	13. Bran I

Bran

At night, the forest comes to life with the singing of crickets and the howling of wolves. The dense fog clears a little around Greywater Watch, giving way to the stars above. Bran watches them sleeplessly for what feels like an endless amount of time. The chasm in the roof to the keep he resides within is about five-feet wide. Meera said the damage was from a battle that took place here long ago when the Children of the Forest still inherited Westeros. She sleeps nestled against his arm; her black, curly hair hiding half of her resting beauty. When he's not admiring the stars, Bran likes to watch her sleep until he eventually drifts off.

After he came back from the past, Meera's worried face was the first thing he saw. The Hound was watching over him as well, and there were green-skinned Crannogmen standing guard around the weirwood trees holding three-pronged spears. Bran remembers being scared of them overhearing, so he asked to be taken upstairs to their chambers where he could tell them everything privately. Meera had smiled, gasped, laughed, and cried in all the right places like Bran thought she would, while The Hound remained silent and suspicious throughout his story; his arms crossed as he leaned against the only wooden door to the small, dank room. When Bran was done, The Hound had only one thing to say.

" _Horse-shit_."

Bran couldn't blame him. _Everything I said was true, but completely unbelievable. I sound insane just saying all of it out loud, but they have to know._ He also needed to know that it had worked, that he hadn't just screwed up his time-line somehow by interfering as much as he did—and too his immense relief, Meera confirmed everything was the same. Jon is still alive and King of the North. Sansa is still there too. Everything I remember, she remembers. Even the Hound is still here.

Yet lying here in bed like this, something feels… _off_ , somehow… He can't quite explain how or why, it's only a feeling… but it keeps his eyes wide open and his mind whirling for hours and hours until eventually the sound of Meera's breathing and the Hound's snoring from the other room creates a mystic rhythm that he drifts off to…

The dream is pleasant. Bran is back in Winterfell in the courtyard watching a much younger version of himself attempt to use a bow-and-arrow. Jon and Robb are chuckling, trying to teach him. Jon is more helpful, while Robb prefers to tease Bran about his form. Bran doesn't care, though. He'd give anything to hear Robb tease him again…

An arrow flies over Bran's head, just missing his ear—and it does the same to his younger self as well—plunging into the center of the target. Younger Bran lowers his arrow, turning around, and there's little Arya casting them a curtsy before fleeing into the shadows with a wild grin on her face. Younger Bran attempts to chase her, but Jon stops him, laughing. He says something, but his voice is muffled—as if an invisible pillow is being pressed against Bran's ears. He tries to strain his ears, walking closer to them… but the closer he gets, the ground between them stretches, and the farther away he grows… Bran reaches for them desperately, but to no avail—Jon, Robb, his younger self—they all disappear in a blaze of darkness—and Bran is alone again. _Alone… All alone…_

" _Not Alone."_

Bran blinks and he's surrounded by thousands of soldiers in the snow. Startled, Bran falls onto his hindquarters, his hands buried in the snow—and he's shocked by how cold it is. _Can I feel cold in my dreams like this? This… this isn't a dream… this is too real… am I having another vision?_ Bran gets up, brushing snow off his pant-legs, and gawks up into the faces of the men. He recognizes none of them, and not a single man in the lot bears a sigil for any House. Their armor and weapons are primitive. Most wore rags, revealing pale, frostbitten skin. Everyone is staring in the same direction, their expressions dead-set determined, yet Bran can also spot fear in their eyes. Some men definitely didn't want to be there. One is opening weeping, and his tears freeze along his cheeks. Bran maneuvers through them, his feet crunching in the snow going unnoticed, as he's not truly here—wherever this is. _I must be in the North for it to be this cold and snowy… but I don't see anything—we're in a blizzard… why are so many men out here in a blizzard? What are they waiting for?_ Bran manages to get to the head of the army where a single rider on a white stallion waits. He's armored all in black with thick, long spikes protruding from his shoulder gauntlets. Two dragon-like horns bulge from his helm. The armored Knight lifts a massive blade from his sheath and runs it along his open palm, drenching it in his own blood. Bran watches, transfixed, as he whispers the words, " _Valar Morghulis_ ," and suddenly his sword is alight with bright, red flames. With the light from the sword, Bran can see a few feet further in the darkness—and to his horror, finds himself facing a giant with blue eyes. The massive beast is no longer alive; its guts are hanging from its belly and one of his arms hangs limply at his side. In the other it a long, broken tree-branch. The giant roars, charging for them—and being it a flurry of crunching sounds follows. There's thousands of wights in the giant's tow, screeching and waving their axes and swords around disjointedly. The Black Knight roars a commanding shout to his men and his stallion kicks off ahead of them. Every single soldier follows their leader, screaming valiantly. Trapped in the middle, Bran can only lift his hands up to either side of him and shout, " _Stop_!"

Just as they're about to collide, Bran is taken far from this snowy, desolate land. He's standing in a clearing of blue, winter roses facing a giant, red-eyed weirwood tree… its eyes are open and instead of bleeding like all the rest, they're simply staring at him. Bran looks around and recognizes this to be the grove in Winterfell. The little, steamy pond is still here… _But the tree's eyes aren't bleeding. Why?_

A hearty laugh catches his attention from somewhere behind him. Bran looks over his shoulder and sees two people approaching, a man and a woman. The man is the same man he's seen twice before, with sandy-blonde hair and a handsome face… _He's the one the Children of the Forest eventually turn into the Night King…_ He's leading a very pretty, red-of-hair woman up through the grove by her hand. She is blushing fiercely, and can't take her eyes off of him. Once again, Bran cannot hear what they're saying—but he can tell they're both madly in love with one another. _They both get married in this grove, I saw it in one of my earlier visions. Who is this woman? Why am I seeing this? What is so important about this? Or am I just dreaming and all of this doesn't matter?_

The man whispers something in the woman's ear and she giggles, closing her eyes. He turns and kneels down, plucking a blue winter rose from the garden; and gently slides it between her ear. The blue petals of the rose contrast with the bright auburn color of her hair, and when she opens her eyes; the man is on one knee, holding her hand in his. _He must be proposing to her… I feel like I shouldn't be watching such a private moment... But this must be important for some reason…_ The lady nods and throws her arms around him, kissing him firmly on the lips. He lifts her up and carries her over to the weirwood tree and disrobes her. She gasps and covers her breasts, but the man just chuckles and kisses her hands away, revealing her nipples to him. The woman groans, stroking his hair, and she guides his hand underneath her dark gown. Bran feels his cheeks burning and wants to look away—and that's when he notices something odd. The weirwood tree's eyes are closing shut as if the face in the bark was _alive!_ Its eyelids are steadily shutting—and just as the man shoves his cock inside the woman, the lids close completely and a torrent of red, blood-like sap leaks down out. The woman notices first and slams her hand into the man's shoulder, stopping him from continuing. The man gawks up at the tree in terror. Both of them hurriedly pull their clothes back on. The woman is in tears while the man is urgently yelling something at her while he buttons up his tunic. _Something's wrong…_

Bran blinks, and the woman is gone, replaced by five Children of the Forest. The man is still there, however, and he's on his knees. Tears are streaming down his cheeks as he grovels at the Children's feet. Behind him the weirwood tree's eyes continue to bleed freely into the earth. _What's going on? Is he begging the Children for forgiveness?_

The green-skinned Child, with leaves scattered through her hair and her eyes as murky as her clothes, bends down and touches the man's shoulder. The man looks into her eyes and is shocked to see her smiling. She whispers something in his ear and the man nods vehemently, grinning with child-like relief—as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. He rises and appears to thank the Children. The leader just nods, but the four behind her are scowling with disapproval…

The Children of the Forest begin to turn and leave when their leader stops and stares directly at Bran. He feels a chill in his heart, and is convinced she can see him. The strange Child only blinks at him, however, before following her people into the darkness…

The darkness grows around him, and Bran is thrown into a loud, wind-swept and cold world of pure snow. He's alone again, with nothing but a blistering storm to accompany his thoughts. Bran wheels around in confusion, his face already numb—and sees a fire in the distance… Bran trudges closer to it, and comes to a halt when he realizes what the fire belongs to…

Castle Black lies in ruins underneath ice. The Wall has a massive gap from bottom to top, as if some God had swung his leg through to smash it open. Now huge piles of ice cover the rubble that once belonged to the great castle of the Night's Watch. The fires still burning here are dying quickly from the cold, and the blood from the battle is slowly turning white… Bran looks up to the top of The Wall and cries… _This is my fault. I never should've passed through. I should've stayed with Benjen… I've doomed everyone! They—_

" _Bran! Wake up!"_

Opening his eyes, Bran wakes up in his bed again, his legs as numb as his face feels. Meera is already on her feet pulling her clothes on, her eyes wide with terror. There's shouts from outside, followed by a loud _BOOM!_ from some invisible explosion that trembles the whole tower. "What's going on?" Bran asks, alarmed, unable to move from his position without help.

Meera goes to him, sweat on her forehead, and says, "Greywater Watch is under attack! We have to leave, _now!_ "


	14. The Hound I

The Hound

Sansa pushes him down onto the bed, his clothes sliding away with a mind of their own; she climbs on top of him, straddling his lap, and leans down to plant a kiss on his neck. She purrs as she does it, making Sandor's erection spring up and smack her between her legs. His Little Bird giggles and reaches down, embracing his thick member with ease, guiding it up into the folds of her womanhood. It's moist with anticipation, and sucks him inside with hunger. Sandor wraps his muscular, scarred arms around her; feeling her warm, squishy body—his bristly chest-hair rubbing against her perky breasts. Sansa moans in his ears, " _Take me, Sandor! I'm yours!_ "

Then Sandor wakes up, and the only thing real about his dream is his massive, throbbing boner. One of his pillows is pinned between his legs, and his arms are hugging the other, leaving his head resting on a hard, wooden bed. Outside his window, men are screaming in the courtyard below. Grunting in annoyance, The Hound stands up, throwing his blanket off of him—and whirls around the room completely naked. _What the fuck is going on?!_

The Hound rushes to the open hole in the wall and sees people fighting each-other. The Crannogmen throw their three-pronged spears and fling arrows and darts from long tubes, but the men in armor deflect the incoming attacks with shields made of steel and wield longswords and axes. With the fog engulfing the battle, it's impossible from up here in the keep to make out everything. _The Frog-Eaters don't stand a fucking chance! Who are these men, how did they find this place, and more importantly, why couldn't this have waited five more fucking minutes?!_

The Hound had been given what could only be called a closet to sleep in with a bed fit for a toddler. Bran and Meera insisted it was alright for him to sleep in the room with them if he wanted, but The Hound said "Bugger that." Now he regrets it. Beyond his door, The Hound can hear chaos in the halls, people shouting indiscriminately while bodies _thud_ across the floor beams. Something explodes outside the tower as The Hound searches for where he put his sword, finding it fallen over on the floor in the shadows by the pile of his clothes. Just as he picks it up, he hears shouting right outside his door from a man with a deep, gravelly voice. _"Up here! They've got to be here!"_

The Hound growls and kicks the door open. It flies off its weakly constructed hinges, and the door collides with whoever it is that's standing right behind it. There's a cry of surprise as the man falls over—The Hound tackling his shoulder into the door, pinning him underneath his weight. He sees two arms cloaked in leather reach out on either side of the doors, flailing about hopelessly for purchase. Climbing on his knees, keeping the stranger pinned underneath him, The Hound takes his longsword in both hands and plunges it down into the wood, hearing a satisfying crunch as the man's muffled cries gurgle. A puddle of blood forms up from the wood. The Hound grins and stands up, pulling his sword out and wiping the blood off on his forearm. _Not the first time I've killed a man butt-naked. Feels just as strange as the last time._ The hallway is clear for now, but he can hear pounding footsteps coming up the winding stairs.

"Hold on, I hear something…" Whispers one of the men, and he sounds just around the corner. The Hound sneaks his way to the edge of the wall and waits in silence for the men to pass. Both men have brown, leather armor and on their backs, The Hound recognizes a sigil belonging not to a House—but a group of Sellswords he can't remember the name of. Depicted on their backs is a broken sword. One of the men has a custard-yellow bandanna around his head, and the other has long, braided, blue hair and black, shiny skin.

"Oh Gods, Stevron's down." The man with the bandanna gasps as they come across The Hound's work. "Quickly, let's search the rooms and—" The Hound's sword juts out from his face, ripping an eye out and ceasing whatever words he was about to say next. As he collapses, The Hound ruptures his sword out from the man's skull just in time to block an incoming attack from the Sellsword on his right. Steel grinds against steel as both men struggle to keep each-other at bay in the tight quarters of this corridor. The Sellsword's eyes briefly go down to The Hound's fully erect cock—The Hound relents on the pressure of his sword, allowing the Sellsword to stumble in closer—close enough for The Hound to smash his forehead to his nose. The bones in his face break from impact, and the Sellsword reels away in pain, allowing The Hound to swing his sword down into his neck, sinking it several feet deep inside his torso through bone and muscle. With a grunt and a tug, The Hound pulls his blade out from his fat, black corpse and turns to face the stairway—prepared for any more invaders to come springing out at him.

But it's the door to his left that startles him. Meera Reed pokes her head out and freezes when her eyes land on the three dead bodies lying around The Hound's feet. His dick wags, still erect from his dream, and he makes no effort to hide himself as he shouts, "Get the Stark boy! We're leaving!"

"Put some clothes on first!" Meera snaps back, slamming the door shut. The Hound grunts and returns to his room, stepping over the broken door, grabbing up his linens from the floor, and pulls them on with haste. By the time he's done yanking on his boots, there's more commotion down below and he can smell smoke. He rushes back into the hall and pounds his fist on Meera's door. It rattles like it's about to burst inward when Meera opens it, dragging Bran in their make-shift sled made of sticks, vines, and leaves. Meera's equipped with her spear and Bran has a dagger hiding beneath his blanket, both of them glaring up at him with resolve.

"I thought you said this place was impossible to find!" The House snarls at them, eyeing the stairway.

"It is! This isn't supposed to happen!" Meera hisses, examining the dead men on the floor. "Who are they?"

"Sellswords from across the bloody Narrow Sea." The Hound begrudgingly answers.

"But how could they know where this is?!"

"Someone obviously fucking told them. Now let's get the hell out of here. Stay behind me."

Down the winding steps, The Hound ducks low to see as far ahead as he can. Meera struggles to drag Bran down the steps, and Sandor decides to turn around and help carry him down—the coast is clear anyway. Once they're on the second floor, The Hound presses his ear to the brick, moss-rotten wall and hears women screaming as if from torture while men hoot and holler. " _They're raping the women. We should go while they're distracted."_ He whispers to Bran and Meera, and both of them glare at him with dismay.

Meera exclaims angrily, "We can't just leave them like this, it's not right! They're my people!"

"They're already dead, and so will we if we don't leave. I don't know how many are in there, and I'm not risking my neck or yours over it." The Hound continues down the next set of stairs but is forced to stop when Meera remains rooted to the spot, and his clutch on Bran's sled threatens to slip. He glowers at her but she's glaring right back, and he can tell there'd be no hope arguing with her. _I could knock her out but then I'll have to carry them both. Damn the Gods, this better be quick._

The room is Howland Reed's Dining Hall, and where the highest born of the Crannogmen once sat and dined on Lizard-Lion meat, there are now men in armor serving themselves to the women and serving wenches that served Greywater Watch. Nobody notices The Hound and Meera enter, for the invaders either have their backs to the door or are too distracted with their raping to look away. _I count six of them. Fuck me. I haven't done this in a while._ The Hound casually strides toward the closest man, his back to him; the armored rapist is in the middle of pumping his groin in and out of a screaming, green-skinned woman, bending her over one of the tables where dirty dishes lay sprawled in heaps. Her hair is a strangled mess with missing patches from where her tormentor had ripped at her scalp with his bare hands. His footsteps echo enough to catch one of the other's attention from across the hall, but it's far too late. The Hound lifts his sword with one hand, tapping the rapist on his shoulder with his other. When the man looks around ( _Gods, he's uglier than I expected_ ), The Hound greets him with a swift, narrow-eyed smile before bringing his blade down over the center of his confused, blushing face.

This alerts the others. The one who noticed him first pulls his cock out from the Crannogwoman he has on the floor and stands up, wrestles with his belt, and points at the Hound panic-stricken, shrieking, _"We've got more, boys!"_ A spear flies through the air from over The Hound's shoulder and lands squarely in the pointing man's chest. His hands fall, his knees tremble, and his pants slide back down his hairy legs before he collapses with a surprised gasp. Meera is already sprinting to the other side of the hall, ducking down low behind the tables. The Hound, surprised to see her, briefly looks back at the door but Bran is nowhere in sight.

" _Holy fuck! Get them!"_ A man completely dressed in armor (and the only one who wasn't raping but rather plundering the food and wine) draws two battle-axes and hollers, jumping up on top of the tables to chase after Meera. The other three throw aside their women and grab their weapons, one has a sword, the other a dagger, and the third a wood-cutting axe. All three are nearly naked save for their boots, their wild, dark hair and beards are caked with blood, and their eyes are dead-set on The Hound.

 _The girl better be able to handle herself for a minute_ , The Hound thinks as he kicks a chair with one foot up into the face of the closest approaching threat. The wood shatters as the man with the sword stumbles backward, his nose bleeding. The one with the axe comes in for a swing and The Hound nimbly dodges, grabs his out-stretched arm that's holding the axe, wrestles it under his armpit and snaps it at the elbow, crushing several bones along his forearm and forcing him to drop his little toy. The rapist's screams are music to his ears—he turns in time to see the dagger-wielder come leaping in from behind—and so he grapples his already disarmed foe and dances him around to take the blow for him. The dagger sinks into his spine and the man howls once more. The dagger wielder can't believe what he's done—and is even more shocked when The Hound kicks his friend into him, crushing his back against the wall. His head bounces off a burning sconce, causing a gush of blood to pour out over his ear.

The Hound takes his sword and drives it through both of them at once before either can recover. Their screams stop, and both hiccup bubbles of blood. Just as The Hound is about to pull his blade out, he hears the swordsman with the broken nose come running up behind him. _Fuck!_ Reaching out, he swings his arm and deflects the incoming attack with his wrist, luckily catching the sword across the flat-side. With his other hand, The Hound leans in and grabs the man by his throat and squeezes as hard as he fucking can. _A man's neck is so weak and open for grabbing._ The sword clatters to the ground as the man pounds his fists against the Hound's chest, each hit progressively weakening until he goes limp in his fingers. His body slumps to the floor and The Hound picks up his sword, turning his head to the last of the men—the one going after Meera.

Meera has him on the floor, his belly straddled between her legs, as she plunges a small, black, shiny dagger over and over into his skull—popping his eyes, ripping out his jaw, digging through his brain. Her face is painted in his blood, and instead of screaming, she's dead silent as she lifts the dagger up and swings it down, then up again, and down again, up, down, up, down… The Hound's hand grasps her wrist to prevent her from going on. "You killed the bastard."

She releases a heavy, nervous breath that she was holding in and glares up at him with tears spilling down her cheeks. "He said he was going to..."

Feeling strange, The Hound scowls around the room at the women gathering themselves after the trauma they just went through. Most are still crying and hugging themselves, either on the table or the floor. He looks down at the dead man, his armor unable to protect his face from her dagger; and notices for the first time the sigil displayed on his chest. _A Kraken? How did the bloody Ironborn find this place? Are they working together with those Sellswords?_ "C'mon, Arya. Let's go."

Meera nods and slowly stands, wiping off her face with her wrist, but then she blinks at him, "What'd you just call me?"

The Hound's heart shutters and his cheeks flush red, "Nothing."

Bran is still in the hall where they left him, sitting like a toddler, strapped in his saddle with blankets wrapped around his crippled lower-half. His pale face smiles with visible gladness at seeing them both return unscathed. "Are you alright, Meera?"

"I'm fine. We saved them… Let's go."

 _We saved their lives, but we couldn't save them from everything._ The Hound grimaces and helps her lift Bran up to carry the rest of the way downstairs.

At the bottom level, they come to a stop to peek around the corner and make sure the foyer is clear. At one end is a warm, burning hearth. A couple of dead bodies lay in pools of blood around the fireplace, but aside from that, they appear to be alone. "Is there a secret exit we can take out of here or are we going to have to go through the front doors?" The Hound asks Meera in a quiet growl.

"There's tunnels my people take in case a Lizard-Lion pack wanders into the area but we've never been attacked like this—and the only way to the tunnels is outside. So yes, we have to go through the front doors." Meera lowers Bran for a moment to open the oak doors and look outside… "There's too much fog, but I can hear them fighting… We have to make a run for it."

"Hard to do that, carrying this one." The Hound grumbles, "Be easier to sling him over my shoulder."

"Unless you want to carry him like that all the way back to Winterfell, then that's not going to work." Meera snaps back as an arrow plunges into the door next to her head. "Shit!"

"Get back!" snarls The Hound, slamming the door shut.

" _They're inside! I saw someone!"_ shouts a muffled, grizzly voice on the other side. The Hound slides his sword through both handles to the door and steps away just as the men on the other side collide with it. The doors rattle and shake but don't give in.

"That won't hold for long." The Hound says, "You better think of another way out of here, girl!"

Meera wheels about, running her fingers through her hair in panic, but the bottom level of the keep didn't seem to house any windows or other doors. _This keep is shit, serves these Frog-Eaters right for relying on the fucking mist to keep them safe._

"What are you fools doing, blow it open." says a smooth, arrogant voice from beyond the door.

"We don't have any left, your people horded them all!" cries another in anger.

"Well we _did_ supply them so it's our right to share them, or not. You should consider yourselves lucky we gave you any at all. You Ironborn are running around here blind as bats. I swear, do I have to do all the work for you?"

"Beor is gonna hear about this!"

"Go run along and tell your beast of a Captain that I'll be here doing your work for you."

Boots stomping through mud signal that several of the men were leaving. The Hound presses his ear to the wood and hears whoever it is on the other side light something that sounds like a torch… followed by a faint sizzling sound…

"Shit, get away from the door!" The Hound roars, grabbing Bran up out of his contraption and diving toward the fireplace while Meera flees for the stairs. A few seconds go by undisturbed, then—

 _BOOM!_ The doors to the keep explode apart in a shower of wood splinters and fire. White, misty smoke fills the cramped room and The Hound shields his eyes from the bright, blinding light that has enveloped him. Blinking through tears, he lowers his hands and sees ten shadowy figures enter through the hole in the wall, swords drawn.

At the head of the pack is a tall, lean man with long, dark brown, wavy hair. Dressed all in black, leather armor from neck to toe, even his face is hidden from view behind a black sash across his nose and mouth. His eyes, however, are wide as they inspect his surroundings. His hands are holstered to his hips as he strides through the wreckage he caused, The Sellswords behind him quickly rushing in and surrounding The Hound and Bran on the floor. The Hound throws his weight into one of them and shoves him away. "Just try it, I'll kill all of you ugly fuckers with my hands if I have to!"

"That won't be necessary, my friend." says the masked Sellsword leader cheerfully, tilting his head to one side. If not for his mask, he might be smiling at him. "I sent three of my men and a bunch of those idiot Ironborn to clear out this tower, but they're not here, and you're covered in blood—so I'm going to guess that you killed them already?"

"That's right." The Hound grins, "They were raping and trying to kill us. If you let us go, I'll _try_ not to kill _you_ too."

The masked man laughs behind his cloth and spins around to check and see if the rest of his Sellswords found this funny. Some chuckled and brandished their blades while others just continued to scowl, looking like they'd love nothing more than to butcher him and Bran on the spot. "You're vastly outnumbered, and you don't have anything to defend yourself with. I mean, don't get me wrong, who's to say if you and I fought each-other fair and square then maybe you'd have a chance, but then again, maybe not. Either way, it's not up to _me_. I have orders."

 _Orders?_ "What orders?"

"To bring you and the boy in alive, of course." The Masked man shrugs, "That is Brandon Stark, yes? You must be The Hound, I mean your face… so I assume it's safe to assume this boy is the Brandon of House Stark?"

"Why are you looking for us? What do you want?" Bran asks quietly.

"It's not what _I_ want. It's what my employer wants. He pays me very, _very_ well to do his dirty work; has for years. Don't take it personally, I'm sure you're a right innocent kid and this man would die to protect you for whatever silly reason he has—but there's no reason for—"

"ARGGH!" one of the Sellswords behind him howls as a spear appears in the back of his neck. Meera Reed leaps around him with her dagger in hand and tackles the man beside him, stabbing him in the armpit to get around his armored plating. The Hound takes this chance and joins in, going right for the masked man—wanting nothing more than to rip his jaw out and beat him to death with it. The masked man is ready and side-steps The Hound, delivering a knee to his stomach. Unlike the Sellswords, The Hound is unarmored, wearing only his linen clothing and trousers for protection—so the knee to his belly knocks the wind out of him—yet the masked man is also unprepared for just how heavy The Hound is.

A piercing stab to his side forces The Hound to relent and collapse on his knee. One of the Sellswords had struck him with their sword, sinking it a few inches into his kidney. The Masked man, who was close to being within The Hound's clutches, dances away, wiping sweat from his forehead and chuckling. "That was close, you almost got me!"

" _LET ME GO!"_ Meera screams at the top of her voice, biting, scratching, and kicking at the Sellswords pinning her down and laughing in her ear. One of them has his hand on her breasts already, and both The Hound and Bran react with shouts of protests.

"Enough, men, enough." The masked man sighs, "Bring her over here, let me get a look at her."

"Don't hurt her! Please! I'll do whatever you want!" Bran cries but they all ignore him and hand Meera over to their masked leader with grins.

"Who might you be?" The masked man asks, kneeling down and looking Meera in the eye.

She spits blood into his face, and he laughs, wiping it off with a flick of his finger.

"You're spicy. You don't look like the rest of these Frog-Eaters but you dress like them, and you even have one of their spears, so I'm guessing you are one of them."

"My name's Meera Reed, daughter to Howland Reed, the Lord of these Lands that you people have invaded!"

"Ah, Howland Reed's daughter. I was told you might be here with them. What a pity…" The masked man glances between her, Bran, and the Hound before pacing around the room, his fingers playing with the hilt of a dagger at his waist. "As I was saying, before the rude interruption, there's no cause for anyone else to die here…"

"Just let us go, please. My brother is King of the North!" Bran begs, tears glistening in his eyes.

The Masked man gasps, lifting his hand to his face in feign surprise. "You haven't heard yet? I'm genuinely depressed to be the one to have to tell you this, Brandon, as I have no desire to hurt little boy's feelings; but your _brother_ is dead."

"What?" Bran looks like someone just cut out his heart. "You… you're lying."

"Afraid not. I know because Howland Reed killed him. My employer helped him do it, even. I'm surprised they let me in on it, as I really had nothing to do with the whole thing, but Littlefinger knows I like to stay in on the loop of things."

"Littlefinger?" The Hound coughs, tasting blood on his tongue and gripping his wounded side, "What does that little prick have to do with this?"

"He's the one who told us where to find this place. Howland Reed must've really trusted him, to give up the location like that. Poor, misguided old fool will have plenty of time to think about his sins in Winterfell's dungeon."

"LIAR!" Meera yells, "You're a _fucking liar!_ My father would never betray the Starks!"

The masked man leans back and laughs. "I am quite good at lying, but I have absolutely no reason to lie to you about this. I'm just a Sellsword, y'know. I don't care who you people are. I'm to bring back Brandon Stark and his bodyguard, The Hound, alive…" The masked man then looks at Bran as he pulls out his dagger, and The Hound catches a glimpse of the dagger's handle; only because of how unusual it is. A naked woman with long, curly hair and exposed breasts shines in the masked man's hands as he swiftly spins it in the air, catches it, and drives the blade through Meera's chest. "Can't let this one follow us and bring me any trouble."

Meera looks down with dull disbelief as he pulls the dagger out and releases a flood of dark, red blood. It oozes across the wooden floor toward Bran and The Hound, who are both gaping, speechless. Meera Reed falls, face first, to the floor, her eyes staring lifelessly up into Bran's. She whispers something under the howling laughter from the Sellswords that only Bran and The Hound hears.

" _Bran, don't forget… You're… not alone…"_

The Hound sees red, and the next thing he sees is one of the laughing Sellswords recoiling away from him in fear as he lunges for him—plugging both his thumbs into his eyes and bursting them under the pressure. Whoever the Sellsword is screams in agony and falls underneath him. The Hound roars, beating his fists into his face three times before being tugged off—his knuckles wet and dripping. The man he's beaten lies motionless beside Bran, his face caved in… Bran doesn't even see him. He can't stop staring at Meera…

"Tie them up, boys." The masked man sighs, wiping the blood from his dagger off on his sleeve. "Grab whatever might be valuable around here. We make for Winterfell in the morning. Until then, _let's enjoy ourselves_!"


	15. Brienne I

Brienne

Her first night in Winterfell goes by as if time is working twice as fast, everything feels like a blurrish dream. After Sansa's feast, she invited Brienne to come with her, for she had a surprise in store. At this point, Brienne wasn't sure what to expect from Sansa, but obediently followed her up to Bran's old bedroom. On the way there, Sansa was deathly silent up until they reached the door. Before they entered, Sansa turned and looked Brienne in the eye, and she saw for the first time the remnants of the child Sansa used to be lingering behind her stare. "Is Jon really dead? Or is he alive? I wasn't sure before, but I need you to be clear with me on this…"

"He's alive, but he _was_ dead, My Lady… You have to believe me." answers Brienne sadly.

"Jon told me that he's died once before already, and came back with the help from the Red Woman that he sent away. Without her, how could he come back from the dead again?"

"The Brotherhood without Banners arrived just after I did, and their Red Priest performed a… a ritual of some sort. Beric Dondarrion sacrificed his life so that Jon may live, I witnessed it for myself—and so did Jaime Lannister."

Sansa pauses then, before saying, "I believe that you believe what you saw was real… but even after Jon told me he came back the first time, I didn't believe him. Coming back from the dead is a fantasy, Brienne. Only children believe in fantasies."

"Are the White Walkers a fantasy to you as well, My Lady?" Brienne asks sourly.

Sansa notices her tone and frowns, her hand on the handle of the door. "Yes, they are, actually. Bran and Jon might believe in them, but my father told me they were nothing more than a myth to keep children scared of misbehaving so they don't get sent to The Wall. It's a story, Brienne, and their times at The Wall and beyond it have made them paranoid. I can't lead the North to ruin over my brother's fantasies. Wherever Jon is now, as long as he stays out of my way…"

"You'll what?" Brienne asks.

"I won't have to _make him_ stay out of my way." Sansa says, and she opens the door.

" _My Lady!"_ Someone cries, and before Brienne can even take a foot inside, Podrick Payne comes rushing up to embrace her around her midriff, being twice as small as her, his head only reaches her bosom. Brienne can't help but grin with amazement and wrap her arms around Pod, lifting him up into a bear-hug so tight that the young man gasps with pain.

" _Oh_ , I'm sorry Pod!" Brienne moans, dropping him down. Tears are in both their eyes, threatening to spill over. _"I thought I'd lost my best Squire!"_

"I thought I'd lost my only friend." Pod grins, wiping his eyes off with his wrist. Brienne notices he's standing lop-sided, and when he backs away, he does so with a limp.

Sansa bows her head and says, "I'll leave you two alone for now. Come find me up in my tower when you have the time, Brienne. Goodnight to you, Podrick."

"Goodnight, Your Grace." Pod nods, still beaming up at Brienne.

As Sansa leaves them, Pod leads Brienne over to his bed where, resting on the wolf-skin, are an assortment of familiar traveling supplies. They were all the items she'd lost when the Crannogmen had abducted her. Pod had kept them on him this whole time, even her smallclothes and wineskin. "I have so much to tell you, My Lady." Pod says excitedly, leaning over and picking up a shortsword in its sheath.

"What happened after I was taken? I thought you would've died. How'd you end up here?" Brienne asks.

"It was The Hound, he sort-of _rescued_ me from the winter."

Now that she just can't believe. "Pod, don't jest with me right now, I'm far too exhausted for—"

"I'm not jesting, My Lady. He really did save me. I tried to get him to save you too, but he wouldn't listen to me."

 _That's impossible. The man I fought wouldn't do that… I thought I'd killed him when he fell off the Cliffside… "_ Where is he now?" Brienne asks, not remembering him being present down in the Grey Hall.

"After we showed up, he's the one who told Lady Sansa—Our Grace, that you were being held captive. I was already out of it. He carried me here on his back after his horse quit. He left with Brandon Stark to go and rescue you… have they not returned with you?"

"No, Pod, I never ran into them on my way here either. Are you sure The Hound didn't run off with Sansa's brother so that he could sell her like he was going to do with Arya?"

"I didn't really think about that…" Pod mutters, "But Lady Sansa trusts him. I'd ask her. I wasn't even awake when it all happened… I thought I was dead for a while… When I woke up, the Maester had a _saw_ in his hands, about to carve my leg off."

Brienne's brow stretches and her lips part with shock, and she looks down in horror at Podrick's limping leg. "Did they…?"

"What? No, I told them to leave my bloody leg alone and nearly shoved my foot down his throat. Poor man is actually quite reasonable, and I gave him quite a shock. He told me my foot was frostbitten and I'd have to lose it if I didn't want to lose feeling in my leg…" Pod smirks and waves his hand dismissively, "I can't be your Squire without a leg, so I refused. No worries, My Lady. I feel it growing stronger every day, I've even regained some feeling in my toes… Enough about that, tell me what happened to you after they took you!"

Brienne frowns and says, "They held me captive for weeks in a cramped pit full of my own piss and shit. It wasn't pleasant to say the least."

" _What?!"_ Pod tries to stand but wobbles, and she can tell by his wince that he is in more pain than he's letting on. Funnily enough, Pod sniffs the air around her and frowns. "You don't smell like piss or shit."

"I've bathed since then!" Brienne scowls and Pod grins innocently. "After Howland finally released me, I was picked up by a kind farmer and his family. I stayed with them for a few days then traveled here with…" she trails off, remembering how right this very second, Jaime might be being tortured in the dungeons. _I have to stop this before it gets out of hand. Jaime hasn't done anything wrong, he's here to make peace, not start a war._ But then she remembers something Littlefinger had called him right before they took him away. _Queenslayer… What does that mean? What was written in that letter from Cersei?_

"Howland Reed is a damned liar!" Pod growls, not noticing her hesitation. He's glaring down at his boots and shaking his head with frustration. "He told Lady Sansa he released you once he knew you were in her service. If he wasn't already in the dungeons, I'd demand he be locked up at once! When he stands trial, we must let them know the truth about him!"

"We will, Pod. Sansa knows most of it already. She believed me, at least, when it came to Howland… But not Jon."

"What about Jon?" Pod asks, and Brienne tells him everything that happened… by the end of it, Pod is sitting back down and gaping at her. "I was unconscious when he was kicked out of Winterfell, I had no idea…"

"He didn't get kicked out, Jon wanted to leave, didn't he?" Brienne asks, alarmed.

"Not what I heard. Apparently, Lady Sansa—err, I mean, Our Grace, forced him to take all the Wildlings and leave."

 _So, Jon was right… I couldn't believe it, but he was right. How could Sansa do this? Did she know Jon would be ambushed by Howland? Is that why she wouldn't arrest Littlefinger, even after Howland admitted to the crime?_ "So much has changed since we left Lady Sansa's service to go south… I never should have left her side."

"Don't say that, My Lady. You were doing your duty, and you still are." Pod smiles warmly, "We just need some time to gather evidence. Littlefinger is definitely up to something, which brings me to what I was going to tell you next—I've been following him at night."

"You've… been following him?" Brienne lifts her brow and glances down at Pod's leg again.

"What? I can still walk—just not very fast. Anyway, yes, for the last three days I've been following him at night down to the crypts. I never go in after him, though…"

"Why not? Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark, Pod…"

"It's not the dark that scares me… those crypts are a maze. If I lose track of Littlefinger, I might just end up lost down there."

Brienne stands up and begins to pace around the bedroom. "Why is he going down there every night? Did this just start three nights ago?"

"It started the day Howland Reed showed up in Winterfell." Pod nods. "Maybe he brought something with him that Littlefinger's hiding in the crypts?"

Brienne scowls. "Not something, _someone_." _The Red Woman. She was not at court today. Sansa must not know she's here. Howland wouldn't just leave her in Greywater Watch either, not with the power she has. If Littlefinger knows about her, then what's he want with her?_ "Podrick, I want you to stop following Littlefinger. He's too smart, and can have eyes anywhere. If he knows you're following him, then he'll have you killed. That's Littlefinger's way."

"Why does Lady Sansa—I mean, Our Grace—trust a man like Littlefinger after what he did to her?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out." Brienne says, "I must go and see her, and Jaime as well."

"I'd go with you, but I really should rest my leg." Pod smiles and Brienne feels another pang of unease.

"Pod… show me your leg."

Pod's face says it all. She'd caught him in a lie. "It's not as bad as it looks." He insists as he leans down and lifts up his pant leg, removing his boot…

Growing along three of his toes are yellowish pustules and greenish, purple mold where flesh used to be, stretching up to his ankles. Only his big toe and pinky toe are left untouched by the frostbite. It reeks of dead skin and rot, and Brienne reels away from him in horror more than disgust. "Pod… Your foot is dead… you have to remove it or it'll spread to your leg."

"I can't do that, My Lady…" Pod sighs heavily, looking sad.

"You must! How could you stand it?"

"I already told you, if I lost my leg I couldn't be your Squire—or a Knight someday… I'd be crippled for the rest of my life, forced to sit in a chair or a bed and have people feed me—and if nobody is there to take care of me, then what? I couldn't ask you to do that. I refuse."

"Pod…" Brienne can't bring herself to say it. _You're already crippled._

"I swore to serve you and I meant it, Brienne. Let me do _my_ duty." Pod says, though it sounds more like a question.

 _He's going to kill himself like this… Why is he so loyal to me? What have I done to deserve him?_ Brienne turns around and swiftly wipes a tear from her eye while Pod struggles to slip his boot back on.

Brienne bids Pod a good night's rest before heading out into the firelit corridor. It's her first time in Winterfell so she gets lost pretty quickly, needing to ask a guardsman in Stark armor for directions to the dungeons. Once she's found the stairs that descend into the castle's levels beneath the earth, Brienne steels herself for whatever she might discover next. _If Jaime is guilty of something, I want to hear it from him, not Sansa…_

When she gets to the dungeons doors, the Gaoler; a giant, brooding, mustached man covered in soot and grime, blocks her passage. "I'm here to see the Kingslayer." She announces to him, but the Gaoler doesn't move.

"No one is allowed in right now."

"I am Lady Sansa's Swornsword; allow me through or our Queen will hear of this." Brienne threatens.

The Gaoler shakes his head, "Don't care who you are, Ser. You'll have to wait. Lady Sansa gave me orders."

Seeing no way to convince this statue otherwise, Brienne storms back up the stairs in frustration. _I made it all the way down here only to be turned away. It'll take ages to go all the way back to Sansa's tower…_

Her legs grow tired as Brienne finds her way back above ground in the Grey Hall. Lord Manderly is inside with a few of his friends, laughing heartily with a drunken glaze in his eyes. She remembers him treating with her father once, he'd been kind to her even though his sons were more than unpleasant and teased her about her looks. _Lord Manderly's one of the men who betrayed Jon, can he be trusted? Can any of Sansa's Bannermen now?_

After nearly an hour, Brienne makes it up to Sansa's tower. She's taken residence in her parent's old bedroom. A wolf's pelt is draped across her floor and her windows are caked with snow as a blizzard growls outside. The Queen of the North sits at her dresser combing her long, red hair with her back to the door, studying herself in a mirror.

"I trust you found your way up here alright?" Sansa asks from over her shoulder.

"It was a small hike, Your Grace." Brienne admits, coming to a halt with her hands behind her back, her jaw stiff and her eyes unblinking. "I tried to visit Ser Jaime in the dungeons, but your Gaoler refused me entry."

"Then he's doing his duty." Sansa says absentmindedly, setting her brush down and turning around to face her Swornsword, "Why do you wish to see him?"

"I… I wanted to know why he's in there right now." Brienne blushes.

"You can ask me." Sansa says, sitting down on her bed and gesturing Brienne to join her. Brienne is unsure of herself as she sits beside Sansa with her hands in her lap.

"He didn't come here to do anyone any harm, he's here to negotiate peace with you—he told me that himself…"

"You don't even believe yourself when you say that." Sansa smiles, "I'm sorry, Brienne, but Jaime lied to you. In the letter we received from Queen Cersei, it vividly describes his intentions… He's here to assassinate me and bring my head back to his sister, same with Jon's. I read it with my own eyes."

Back in the forest before they arrived in Winterfell, Brienne remembers feeling suspicious of Jaime, but she'd given him the benefit of the doubt then… "He… That's Cersei's words, not his. This must be some sort of trick…"

Sansa scoffs, "Cersei wouldn't risk getting her brother killed… or should I say, her lover."

Brienne's fists clench every time she's reminded of those filthy rumors, but more than that, her mind is swirling with rage. "He wouldn't lie to me…"

"Are you saying that _I'm_ lying to you?" Sansa asks, and her smirk falls into a frown. "I trusted you when you told me of Howland; please trust me, Brienne, when I tell you that Jaime Lannister is just as guilty as his sister."

"I…" Brienne closes her eyes and shakes her head, "Of course I believe you, Sansa, it's just…"

"Speak your mind with me, Brienne. It's only you and me now."

So Brienne speaks her mind. "I'm _afraid._ I'm afraid that Jaime lied to me. I'm afraid of Littlefinger and whatever he's scheming… and I'm afraid that you're not the same person I pledged myself to. I wonder what Lady Catelyn would say if she could see you now…"

Sansa gets up from the bed and moves across to her cabinet, her black dress gliding across the wolf's pelt. She stops for a moment, holding her hands up to her chest, as she stares out through the glass of her window. Brienne watches her, hearing her own words repeat themselves in her mind, and wonders if she'd crossed a line.

"If you wish to leave my service…" Sansa whispers.

Brienne flies up from the bed and collapses to one knee, bowing her head low so fast she thought her neck might break. "My Lady, I swore a vow to serve you until my last breath. I will never leave your side, no matter what you decide. You asked for my honesty and I gave it, I apologize if my words have offended you. Please, forgive me."

Sansa's hand rests on Brienne's shoulder, and when Brienne lifts her head, Sansa is on her knees with her, smiling as tears slide down her slender cheeks. "You're _right_ about me… I betrayed _Jon_." Sansa collapses into her chest and sobs freely while Brienne embraces her in amazement. " _What do I do, Brienne?!_ I've ruined _everything_! Bran will hate me now—if he's even still alive! The Crannogmen want to start a war over Howland being captured, and I'm scared Bran is now his hostage! I-I'm in over my head, Brienne! I was never meant to be a Queen! I don't know the first thing about ruling the North, especially during Winter! I'm lost and I kicked out my brother because I was jealous and stupid and weak like I've always been. You have to help me…"

"I'm here, Sansa, I'm here." Brienne whispers, petting her hair as tears form in her own eyes. _She's just a little girl without her Mom and Dad. She needs me…_ "I never should have left your side, Sansa. Never again, I swear it."

Sansa sniffs and wipes her face off. They part and stand up again, Brienne feeling the weight in her legs begging to keep her down on the floor. I need rest. _But not yet. I need to know…_

"Sansa, I have to ask, why do you trust Littlefinger?"

"I don't trust him. Only a fool trusts Littlefinger…" Sansa moves to her bed again, her eyes glazed over. "I need him for all the reasons I just told you. He knows how to play the game of thrones, and he knows how to get results. If I'm to stop the Lannisters and Targaryens from burning the North, if I'm going to be a Queen, I need men like him on my side and not as my enemy. He has forty-thousand Knights of the Vale under his command, which is more than the rest of the North combined."

"But he used you to betray Jon, can't you see that? He used Howland to murder Jon and then, as soon as Howland's betrayal was put to light, Littlefinger just sat there and let his ally go to the dungeons. He's evil, Sansa. You can't let a man like him get what he wants or he'll walk all over you."

"I know that, which is why I'm sending him with my army south to conquer whatever's left after the Lion and the Dragon have finished ripping each-other to pieces. They're leaving in the morning, and then Littlefinger won't be around for a long time."

"Was it his idea to lead your army?" Brienne asks slowly.

"Yes… I was going to but the rest of the Northerners all thought it would be best if I stay here and look after the North during winter. There's nobody left who can."

"And what happens after your enemies are defeated and it's just you and Littlefinger? He'll have your army and your allies down in the south out of your reach."

"I promised Littlefinger he could have the Iron Throne." Sansa sighs, "Don't worry, I have no intentions of letting that sick, twisted man rule Westeros. After he's accomplished his task, I'll have his head alongside Cersei's…"

"Then who will sit the Iron Throne?"

Sansa smiles faintly and says, "Well, do you think Jon would forgive me if I gave it to him?"

* * *

Note from the Author: I'm curious what my reader's predictions for season 7 will be. You guys obviously know mine, though I will admit that I don't think it's very likely we'll see characters like Strong Belwas, Victarion, or even Howland Reed. Anyway, leave a review and let me know your predictions! There's hundreds of you guys reading this thing every day but I only ever hear from a handful of you. Shout-out to _Khalessi21, Explodingbunnies52, TeamGwenee, Mattias88, EffervescentNova_ , and everyone else for writing such awesome reviews!


	16. Melisandre II

Melisandre

The echoing, wet footsteps in the dark alerts the Red Woman to his presence, but Melisandre doesn't lift her eyes to look at him, nor does she move from her place on the floor. _How long have I sat here like this? How many hours has it been?_ Light from Petyr Baelish's torch illuminates the dark, quiet chamber and his footsteps come to a halt a few feet behind her. "My Lady… I've brought you dinner and wine, if you care for it."

Melisandre doesn't respond. She hears him sigh through his nose and set something that sounds like a plate and a goblet down on the cold, hard ground beside her. "You need to eat, My Lady. It's not good for you to be alone down here in the dark for so long without proper nourishment… Or is it that you resent me for keeping you here? I hope you understand it's for your sake I do this…"

Melisandre understands, but still she doesn't say anything. Her red dress is now damp from being on the floor for so long. She hadn't moved since Littlefinger had left her there… after he'd shown her his secret. Her face is pale, even under torchlight, and her usual warm eyes are now empty and cold, staring lifelessly across the chamber at the statues of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn.

"You'll be rejoiced to here you won't be staying down here much longer. In an hour, some of my men will escort you out of Winterfell under cover of darkness. You will be given a horse and provisions for the road… Are you _listening_ , my dear?" Petyr crouches down, reaches under her chin, and gently lifts her head up with his index finger so that her eyes meet his. His smirk slides across his face like a worm as he says, "There you are, I thought I'd lost you to madness—but there's still a fire in your eyes, all it needs is stoking."

Melisandre blinks and allows him to help her stand. Her legs are shaking from not using them all day and night, and her hands are clammy and cold against his rough, warm skin. When he lets go of her hands she wobbles as if about to topple over—clutching the thick, stone wall for support. Littlefinger just stands by patiently, watching her.

"How can you do it…?" She mutters.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that?" Littlefinger leans his ear in a little, smiling.

Melisandre glares at him, gathering her wits. "How can you… _do it_? Not go mad, knowing what you know? I don't understand…"

Littlefinger's smile falters a little as he says, "You'd be surprised what a man can live with when he's got nothing left to live for except himself. I suspect the reason you're taking my little revelation hard is due to your history with religion… Just a shame. They say believing in something can give you strength, but it can also be your greatest weakness, especially when the thing you believed in most turned out to be… different than what you expected."

 _He's right… I still can't believe what I saw down there… if that was all real, then…_

"Please, My Lady, eat and drink while you are here. You must be prepared. Once you leave, you'll be on your own for a time—but not long. One of my most trusted allies knows to look for you at Moat Cailin. He'll have an army of Sellswords and Ironborn with him, so don't be alarmed if his soldiers try and harass you. Tell them who you are and that you're there to meet with Naharis. Once you're there, wait for me to arrive, for I won't be far behind you."

Melisandre, The Red Woman, the Witch most men feared just by hearing her name, trembles like a child as she says, "I c-could ride off… I could forget about you and never return to this foul, frozen wasteland."

If this threat worried Littlefinger, he gave no sign of it. "You could very well do that. I'd be powerless to stop you… though, think about it. After what I showed you, after everything you've seen _—can you really turn your back on this?"_

His words bring back memories of what he showed her, how he'd opened up a secret tunnel by sliding a Valyrian Steel dagger into a strange obelisk of Dragonglass, and led her down into a dark, moist, warm cave… Littlefinger's torch had been the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. The ground was uneven and sloping for most of the way until they reached a crevasse in the stone that is almost too narrow for them to fit through. She remembers the way her breasts and stomach had to slide uncomfortably across the rocky wall, and the further in he'd lead her, the hotter the air became. He wouldn't tell her what he was going to show her, and she was almost suspecting a trap lying in wait… until he came to a stop in a clearing of darkness that seemed to stretch on and on for miles… Melisandre remembers taking a step forward, and instead of landing on rock, something metal clattered under her foot. She leaned down and picked up a single gold Dragon piece. It was one amidst millions.

"Why is all this gold all the way down here?" Melisandre had asked Littlefinger.

"This gold is centuries old. Aegon the Conqueror hid his riches here before he passed, and never told a soul…" Littlefinger says, and he grasped Melisandre by her hand, leading her up through the gold, "He also left something else, something I cannot describe with mere human words… you'll just have to see for your own eyes."

That was when Melisandre heard a low, rumbling gust, as if something ahead was breathing; and saw the massive, endless darkness move as if alive. Fear struck her then, and she almost fled—but Littlefinger's hand was clamped around her own still, forcing her to keep moving. The black wall of shadows is rustling from the noise they're making, and streams of gold came crashing down to meet them—but Littlefinger doesn't let up, even when his legs sink into the gold up to his knees, and Melisandre's does as well. When he finally came to a stop, he handed Melisandre his torch. "Go ahead, it's safe." He told her eagerly.

With the torch in hand, The Red Woman climbed higher and higher through the gold until a blast of hot air rustles her hair and makes her stop. A giant, gaping, moist chasm stands in front of her, and the breathing noise is coming from inside—blasting her with air so hot it feels like it might burn her skin if exposed for much longer… There's something strange about the chasm's opening… It's not make of rock, but something rougher to the touch.

"You don't want to go in _there_ , trust me." Littlefinger chuckled.

Melisandre lifts her torch over her head, following along the walls of the cave… only to realize that this massive hole isn't a part of the cave at all.

It's merely the Dragon's nostril.

"He has many names, but allow me to introduce you to the one you might know him best by," Littlefinger said as Melisandre backed up down the hill of gold in utter disbelief, "Melisandre of Asshai, meet your _Lord of Light_."

The Dragon's head becomes clearer the longer Melisandre holds the torch up high. His scales, which she'd mistakenly thought were rock, are as black as obsidian; his jaw is long enough to sink even Stannis's Flagship with a single swipe, and the top of his horned head looks to have grown into the rocks above, encasing it there. Another hot blast of air come rushing out of its nostrils, whipping her red hair about while Littlefinger shields his face with his hand and releases a hearty laugh. "Go ahead, introduce yourself, My Lady. R'hllor has been waiting to meet you for quite some time."

Speechless, Melisandre couldn't think of what to say. Never in her life had she witnessed a living, breathing Dragon… and if she could, she wouldn't imagine one being this… colossal. Only its head is visible, but she suspected that if she followed its neck down with the torch, she'd find the rest of its body trapped within the stone and gold as well.

Littlefinger glances between her and the Dragon, appearing confused by something. " _Nothing?_ Perhaps he is resting. I can never quite tell, his eyes never open… but when he speaks to me, I always hear, just as you always hear whenever you look into the flames." Petyr approaches her then, blocking her view of the Dragon with his smirk, and reached for her torch, gently stealing it back from her again. "You've been able to experience his gift, but you've never truly understood his power... Not yet. In time, you will. You see, The Lord of Light, as you so aptly named him, has been helping me ever since I discovered this tomb as a boy. Sometimes I think he led me down here on purpose, somehow…"

"This… this can't be real…" Melisandre muttered.

"I never would've guessed that reaction from someone like you, My Lady. You have returned people from the dead, you've given birth to demons that murder whoever you will, and you've been able to live longer than any human is supposed to. Did you think these powers were of your own making? Surely you must've guessed these things didn't just happen out of thin air. Yes, you might have an affinity toward magic, but spawning demons out of one's genitals isn't something any human being is capable of… Unless they have help. I apologize if this crushes the illusion you've been living under that there's actual Gods in this world—but there is no such thing as Gods, Melisandre. Only Dragons, and this one has been around a lot longer than anyone alive on the planet. He only shares what little he feels like with me, but over the years I've learned a great many things about him—how his magic works, and why he cares about influencing the world above. If you work with me, I can show you the answers you've been looking for your whole life, Melisandre. Work with me, and you'll be doing the Lord of Light's will."

As they made back for the exit, Melisandre was in a daze of confusion and shock. Littlefinger seemed to walk with an extra bounce in his step, and she noticed him pick up a pocket-full of gold up from the hill before leaving. _How often does he come down here to make a withdrawal? Is this how he's managed to stay so rich all this time? Can I really trust his word, or is all this somehow just a—_

 _(("Don't…Trust…Him…"))_

— _trick, or… or… what was that?_

Melisandre's hand pauses along the crevasse, about to follow Littlefinger through. He keeps moving, clearly not hearing what she'd just heard… She looks back over her shoulder into the darkness where she knows the Dragon's head is still hiding just beyond her vision, listening. _I'm sure I heard a voice… it sounded so distant, almost like a whisper in the back of my mind…_ _Why would the Dragon be—_

 _((Let… me… free…))_

This time she definitely hears a voice.

But the longer she stands there listening to the silence, the further away Littlefinger and his torch get, so eventually she had to keep moving.

Now, here she stands, trembling as Littlefinger hands her the goblet he'd brought for her.

"Do you have an answer for me?" Petyr asks her.

Melisandre lowers the goblet from her lips, looks Littlefinger in the eyes… and nods. "Yes. I'll help you."

"Splendid." Littlefinger grins, "Meet my men at the entrance to the crypts in an hour. I'd say I'd see you again before you leave, but I simply can't take the chance. Enjoy your meal and have a safe journey south, and remember; _the Night is Dark and full of Terrors!_ " With that, Littlefinger leaves her, laughing to himself. Melisandre collapses back down on the ground again, her food and goblet forgotten, and she returns to what she was doing before…

From beneath her red robe, Melisandre produces a small, red vial of black powder. She then runs her hand along the dancing flames of a torch, pouring the powder in, and whispers words in Valyrian, the same words she'd always used when attempting to communicate with her God. _I've never heard his voice, but I've always seen the way. If you can't speak to me, show me the way, Oh Lord of Light. If that really was you down below, show me—show me how I can help you. Please. Show me the way…_

Opening her eyes, Melisandre stares into the fire…

…and R'hllor shows her the way.


	17. Tyrion II

Tyrion

The rocking of the waves against _the Red Wind's_ hull wakes Tyrion from his sleep as the sun is mounting the sky and a light snow rains across the vast ocean. _Winter has come, I really should sleep with a warmer blanket—it's colder than Castle Black in here._ His bones crackle and pop as he stretches and climbs out of bed, supporting his head with his hands. Like most nights, Tyrion Lannister spent his evening getting drunk in the solitude of his chambers. Nobody was in the mood to drink with him. Daenerys hardly left her room, and sometimes at night, Tyrion could hear her through his wall crying. Before last night, Missandei would sometimes cry with her—but the young handmaiden was spending most of her time with Greyworm in the bottom of the ship. Tyrion had to get well-drunk in order to stop thinking about the fact that Greyworm was going to die, it was only a matter of time. _Even if he somehow lives for the time being, he won't be able to eat or drink or take a shit without help for the rest of his life. What kind of life is that? I'm sorry, Greyworm. I wish you didn't have to suffer… Fuck, I'm thinking about him first thing in the bloody morning and this hangover is just making it worse. Where's my wine?_

He finds his glass tankard empty and his cupboards full of cobwebs. Tyrion grunts and curses himself for not grabbing some more beverages from King's Landing while they were there. _Great, I have three important meetings today as Hand. How the hell am I going to survive this?_ Tyrion dresses quickly, knowing Lady Olenna Tyrell wouldn't appreciate being kept waiting, and hurries out into the corridor.

Tyrion's sea-legs aren't experienced yet. Even now, as he struts down the hallway, the whole boat sways and his legs crisscross, nearly causing him to tumble onto the crimson carpet. _C'mon Tyrion, get your mind straight. This isn't the time to be tripping about hungover. I'm Hand of the Queen, and as such, it's my duty to speak on my Queen's behalf. Daenerys can't deal with politics right now, so it's up to me to be her voice. I can't screw this up._ He finds his way up to the Queen's council chambers and, as he predicted, Lady Olenna is already there.

Five handmaidens titter about the old, shawled woman in black. The Queen of Thorns, they call her, and for good reason. As Tyrion enters the wide, circular room and approaches the table; Olenna has her head turned away from him—glaring at her handmaidens with impatience. "Stop stalling and tell it to me straight, dear—did you remember the cheesecakes or not?"

"I-I'm terribly sorry, Madam… but—"

"Well that figures, doesn't it? You had one job— _remember the bloody cheesecakes_ —and you couldn't even do that. Why did I agree to hire you again? Please remind me, in my old age I can be _forgetful_." Lady Olenna smirks and shakes her head with disappointment, "You're still young, so what's your excuse?"

The ridiculed handmaiden lights up with tears but is too frightened to move or even look away from Olenna's beady eyes. The others around her are deathly quiet, knowing better than to interrupt The Queen of Thorns in the middle of one of her tirades.

Tyrion, however, owes her no such respect; and clears his throat to signal his arrival. Apparently Olenna Tyrell was already aware of him, because without looking his way she lifts her hand up and shows him her palm. Then she says to the rest of her handmaidens, "Let this be a lesson to all of you, I'm moody on my best of days and being out here on the sea is giving me hot flashes—so instead of standing there like sheep, how about you all kindly find me and _the Hand_ here something to break our fast on before I get really nasty?"

They scurry past him as Tyrion climbs up onto one of the chairs opposite of Lady Olenna, watching her with a wide, sardonic smile until the door closes and the two of them are left alone. From underneath her full headdress, Lady Olenna still doesn't pay Tyrion the slightest bit of acknowledgement, her eyes firmly planted on her interlaced fingers on the table. "You're late."

"Am I? Forgive me." Tyrion says raspily, "As Hand I have many duties to attend to."

"Including getting drunk, I suppose?" Her beady eyes turn sharply onto Tyrion's, and he feels for the first time a trickle of intimidation. _She's as old as my father and just as calculating. She hardly gave me the time of day when we last spoke like this. I suppose she's not very happy to be addressing me as Hand of the Queen now._

"We all have our needs, Lady Olenna. For me it's wine, for you it's cheesecakes. I won't judge you if you won't judge me." Tyrion says wearily.

"Hardly anything wrong with indulging one's sweet tooth, especially when you're one foot in the grave." Lady Olenna smirks and Tyrion senses perhaps there's a chance for him to impress her after-all. "When will Daenerys Targaryen be showing up? I have a lot to get done and not enough time to do it, _and_ I'm eager to get out of the water and back on dry land."

"Ah, my apologies, Lady Olenna, but our Queen will not be coming—she is indisposed at the moment, grieving over the loss of her child."

"You mean the black dragon?" Lady Olenna says with displeasure in her tone, "That thing wasn't her child, surely I do not need to explain to _you_ how the human body works."

"And surely I shouldn't have to explain to _you_ that just because someone isn't blood, doesn't mean you can't love them like they are." Tyrion counters.

"Hah." Lady Olenna rolls her eyes, "When I lost my Margaery, I didn't crawl into my bedroom and hide from the world— _I acted_. I made allies with the Martells and then I gave you people my soldiers, ships, and food. I think the least our " _Queen_ " can do for us is give me her attention and respect."

Not liking her inflection on the word "Queen", Tyrion glares at her and replies, "As Hand, I am fully capable of taking on these tasks while she grieves. If you didn't feel like mourning when your granddaughter died, then that's your business."

Lady Olenna leans back with an amused sort of scowl. "Of course, I grieved for her. I grieve for Margaery every day, but I don't let my grief get in the way of business. You're certainly sharper than last we met, Lannister. Yes, don't forget, you're still a Lannister and I won't just simply forgive all your family has done to mine."

"My family is dead, Lady Olenna, with the exception of Jaime and myself. As far as I can recall neither of us have done anything to you personally."

"No, it was all your sister and father. But you're right, they're dead and you're not. Not yet, anyway. Where is your brother?"

"I don't know." Tyrion admits, "Cersei sent him away, that's all I know."

"Pity. I'd rather deal with a dimwitted Lannister than one who can keep up with my tongue."

"I wouldn't count Jaime's wits out, he's bested me in a battle of debates more than once before. If you're not looking for a challenge, perhaps we should get some wine and forget about politics?" Tyrion asks, secretly hoping she would agree.

Olenna Tyrell smirks knowingly. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Drinking is for celebrating, and I'm not here to celebrate with you. Far from it, in fact."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, I thought you'd have guessed it by now; the reason for my visit." Olenna is about to say more when the doors open and her handmaidens return bearing a dish of cheesecakes and (to Tyrion's horror) goblets filled to the brim with nothing but clear water. "There you are, not so useless when kicked in the ass, are you?" says the Queen of Thorns to the handmaiden she'd harassed earlier. The cheesecakes aren't the only food served out; there's rashers of bacon, hard bread, links of sausage, and even a blackberry pie. _Lady Olenna must keep quite an impressive supply of food on her ship, I don't think we have any pies on board._

"I asked for cheesecakes and they bring us a feast." Lady Olenna sighs and shakes her head, "You little hens can flee now, I have no more use for you" She waves her hand at them, turning her attention to her food. The handmaidens bow their heads, turn around, and bump into each-other trying to escape. Tyrion picks up a piece of bread and spreads butter on it, watching Olenna carve herself off a small piece of cheesecake. "Where were we?"

"You were about to tell me why you're here."

"Ah, yes. First, you tell me something, my _Lord Hand_..." Olenna plunges the small piece of cheesecake into her mouth and begins chewing, staring straight-faced at Tyrion across from her, "I was obviously not present for the battle, but I have heard from Addam Marbrand what happened, and he's had some interesting tales to tell me, indeed."

Tyrion gets a foul feeling in his gut, no longer interested in eating. "What kind of tales might these be?"

"That it was wildfire the destroyed the Red Keep, unlike what many others are saying. Word has spread that it was Daenerys and her dragons that burned it down, putting an end to your awful sister's life. So, tell me, which is it? Is Addam just insane? Or are the rumors spreading across Westeros false?"

 _I knew this day would come. Lady Olenna is too smart._ "Addam Marbrand is no liar. I would know, he served my father loyally. I'm surprised he reports to you now."

"When he saw how far Cersei was willing to go to take the Iron Throne, and how my family was extinguished in the blink of an eye, he took sympathy on me and began reporting to me, eventually betraying Cersei and leading the Lannister forces under his command right into the invading Dothraki horde. I trust him now, but if what he says is true…"

"King's Landing was destroyed by Cersei just as we were climbing the steps to the Red Keep itself. That is how Daenerys lost one of her dragons, he was right on top of the fire when it came gushing out…" Tyrion still remembers it like a nightmare that won't go away, and the desire to have a drink tightens.

"Ah, but it wasn't just the wildfire that burned everything down, now was it? Addam also told me about the other two dragons. Is it true that they turned on our own men and helped destroyed the city?"

Thinking of Greyworm, Tyrion can't bring himself to lie. _Olenna would know anyway, there's no point. I am the Hand, and this is my responsibility to answer for this…_ "Yes, that is also true… unfortunately."

" _Unfortunately_ , he says." Olenna leans back, with a piece of cheesecake spiked on her fork, her beady gaze examining his face. "You are aware that many of the men those dragons burned alive were _my_ men? They were also Martell men, Marbrand men, Redwyne—"

"I'm aware of how many men, women, and children died that day, Lady Olenna. There's no need to list your countless allies, I've heard it all before."

"Then you should certainly have more to say than "Unfortunately" but all I hear is you being defensive." Lady Olenna says in-between bites.

"It was a _tragedy_ then. Or would you prefer _calamity?_ _A force of nature._ _An accident._ There's many words I could use to describe what happened, but none of them can truly capture how horrible it was. You see, unlike _you_ , I was there. I saw it all first-hand and I wish I hadn't because it was the worst thing I've ever experienced. Worse than killing my own father on the privy, worse than strangling my whore of a lover with the necklace I gave her, worse than anything I can even imagine—I watched people I cared about burn alive in the blink of an eye, and listened to the sound of thousands of people begging for help while I flew over them, _retreating_ … So, what do you want me to say?"

"I want to know if those dragons can be controlled." Olenna says bluntly, setting her fork down, her plate empty. "If we can't control them then the next time we need to use our army, we might not have an army left to use. Do you have a number on how many men you have left? Or are you so unorganized that you don't know yet? It's been over a week, man."

"Of course we know what our numbers are," Tyrion narrows his eyes. _Shit, think fast, Tyrion—I know how many Unsullied and Dothraki we have but I haven't counted the survivors for the others yet. Time to make an educated guess…_ "We have just over fifty thousand."

"And how many did we have when we entered King's Landing?"

"Over two hundred thousand, but that is because most of the Dothraki have abandoned us." Tyrion says, "They made up half of our entire army, so I can't say for sure how many of them survived. We only have two hundred loyal Dothraki men with us now…"

"How many men do you suppose _I_ have left now?" Olenna asks thoughtfully.

"I can't say for certain." Tyrion admits, steeling himself for her reaction.

"But you said your army is fifty thousand so _confidently_. That must not be true, then, is it? I have less than ten thousand, including all of my Bannermen, and I know Ellaria lost a majority of her forces as well. When I gave you my men, they were sixty-five thousand strong… I understand the wildfire wasn't your fault, but the dragons… they were the ones who killed the majority of them. My soldiers were ordered to stay behind the vanguard. They were nowhere near the Red Keep, or the main battle. Forgive me, but I'm left to deduce that your Queen's _beasts_ are responsible."

Tyrion closes his eyes and bows his head, "I can see why you would see it that way, Lady Olenna, I do… but you have to understand, they only acted that way because they lost their brother."

"Are those monster's suffering supposed to excuse the massacre they committed? If we treated our criminals with the same empathy, Westeros would be run by thieves and rapists. _Unfortunately,_ we can't send dragons to The Wall, so I propose another solution."

Tyrion glares at her now. "You're not suggesting what I think you are?"

"Maybe, I can't read minds." Olenna shrugs nonchalantly.

"We're not executing her dragons."

Olenna laughs heartily at this. "Of course not, like you already made clear, they are her _precious babies_. I'm suggesting we lock them away."

Tyrion cracks a grin and shakes his head, "Do you think we have two dragon-sized cages on board one of these ships?"

"You're not going to be on these ships much longer, are you? Where are you heading now?"

"Dragonstone."

"Well then that fits, doesn't it?" Lady Olenna raises her eyebrow, "Dragonstone was once home to Targaryens. You'll have no trouble finding caves to lock them up in."

Sighing, Tyrion says, "Dany has already tried that and they ended up resenting her and withering. When a dragon is kept in the dark, they stop _growing_. If we locked them up, they'd—"

"I wish I could say I'm disappointed, but I think this day was inevitable… A shame." Lady Olenna stands up, ignoring whatever Tyrion was about to say, and begins to leave without even saying a parting word.

"Where are you going?" Tyrion calls after her, jumping out of his chair.

"If you're not going to lock them up then I really don't see any point in continuing this arrangement." Lady Olenna tells him unapologetically. "I'm taking what's left of my army and returning to Highgarden."

"I—we—we can pay you for your losses, A Lannister always pays his debts." Tyrion says, chasing after her desperately. "Please, consider it a—"

"You must be mad if you think gold can compensate for this, and _the Lannister motto_ isn't going to convince me of anything, my boy."

 _Shit._ "If you turn your back on us, you're turning your back on the Queen!"

"The Queen of dust, rubble, and _the dead_." Lady Olenna frowns down at him and he can see the disgust in her eyes. "Good luck with that. There is no King or Queen anymore, not without a throne. You don't have a throne, you don't have a city, and your allies are leaving you out of fear and contempt. Your Queen is no Queen, just another _terrible_ conqueror, and I hope I never have to see _you,_ or _her,_ or those dragons again. _Good day_."

With that, Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, exits. Tyrion is left standing beside himself feeling confused and terrified. _What just happened? What have I done? Should I have just lied? No, that's something Cersei would do. Olenna would find out, and Dany would never lock them up, she'd sooner burn Olenna alive for suggesting it. Fuck, I thought this meeting would be the easiest of the three to deal with…_

Tyrion's miserable day was just getting started.

He goes up on deck to watch the Tyrell fleet sail off, elegant flowers on their sails flapping in the breeze. He's alone up here save for a couple working boat-hands. Tyrion goes to a railing and leans on it, just barely able to see over the wooden edge. _Daenerys is going to be furious with me about losing the Tyrells. How am I supposed to tell her? Lady Olenna had it wrong—it was my fault the wildfire went off. I should've seen it coming, I should've been smarter. Dany was gracious enough not to have my head for it, though I suspect she believes High Priestess Kinvara is responsible just so that she doesn't have to feel guilt. But after this, who knows, she might have a change of heart and decide to blame it all on me. Lord, please have mercy and bestow a panicking dwarf some liquor._

"L-Lord Tyrion?"

The voice snaps him out of his thoughts. Tyrion cranes his head around and finds Theon Greyjoy standing behind him, dressed in dirty, white rags instead of clothes, with his arms and legs encased in blood-soaked bandages. Ever since the battle, the young lad had been acting strange. Tyrion sometimes caught him muttering to himself under his breath, and he could swear it's the same word over and over that he repeats—but he speaks it so softly, Tyrion can never make it out. Even now, Theon is looking at Tyrion with a twitch in his eye and a tremble in his lip while his hands fumble nervously with themselves.

"Hello, Theon." Tyrion says, looking back out into the ocean. "I'll warn you, I'm having a rough morning, so unless you brought me some wine…"

"I... I just came to… to…" Theon jerks his head about wildly, checking to make sure nobody around was listening…

"You're safe now, Theon. It's alright. You can talk to me." Tyrion frowns, facing Theon with his arms crossed.

"It's, well, it's…" Theon closes his eyes and sighs out his nostrils, steadying his breath, "The men, the Ironborn my—my sister had under her command before she, she…"

"What about them?"

"They're leaving…"

"What?" Tyrion's arms drop, losing his composure, "What do you mean they're _leaving_?"

"They—they don't want to follow D-Daenerys anymore, they say she's a tyrant who burns her own men alive… I was there, I saw the wildfire burn Yara with my own eyes… It wasn't the dragon's fault, but the others—Yara's men, they won't listen to me."

" _Why the bloody hell not?!_ You're a Greyjoy, command them to follow your orders and stop being such—"

"They all know, My Lord, about…" Theon glances down between his legs for a moment, and Tyrion realizes what he's about to say and waves his hand impatiently.

"You're telling me your men won't listen to you because you don't have a _cock?_ Do you speak with your cock or do you speak with your tongue?! Answer me, Theon!"

" _R-Reek_ —I-I'm sorry, L-Lord Tyrion, it wasn't my fault, I tried but they just shoved me aside like I was nothing!" Fresh tears stream down Theon's cheeks as he admits this to him, but Tyrion's rage is too great to feel much sympathy.

"You _do_ realize the only reason I kept Arya Stark from keeping you in the burning ruins of King's Landing is because you're the only one who can control the Ironborn. You're the last living Greyjoy, unless Euron is still out there. _Is that why they're leaving?_ Now that Yara's gone they'd rather serve your uncle over _you_?!"

"I-I don't know! They didn't tell me any of that!" Theon cries, falling to his knees, his head now level with Tyrion's. "Please, I-I didn't know what to do—they were Yara's men, never mine! I never asked for this! I should've been the one who died, not her…"

"For once, you're right." Tyrion growls, leaning in and grabbing Theon by the collar of his rags. "We need those men, Theon. You have to get them back."

"How? I—I can't convince them! They've already begun to set sail, there's nothing I can do…"

"Then you really are useless." Tyrion lets him go and pushes past him, leaving Theon on the floor to sob and mutter under his breath.

 _Fucking hell._ Tyrion doesn't have to meet Ellaria Sand for another hour, so he returns to his chambers to bathe as briefly as he can. While in his tub, Tyrion sinks into the water until he's below the surface. His world goes deaf as water rushes into his ears. When he rises, soap cascades down his long, curly hair and unmanageable beard. He gets out and goes to his mirror, grabbing a pair of trimmers from a drawer. _My skull is pounding. Hopefully Ellaria brought some beverages with her to partake… Who am I kidding, I'm the last person alive she would drink with._ Snipping at his beard with the trimmers, Tyrion cuts the long, dark hairs around his chin, neck, and cheeks until there's a thin layer of stubble. Tyrion washes his face off in the basin of water and dresses himself slowly, eyeing his window where he spots the ships from Dorne approaching.

Tyrion boards Ellaria's ship instead of having her board theirs. It was Daenerys's wish that Ellaria and her Sand Snakes never be allowed anywhere near her again, something Tyrion had advised her against. _It makes it hard to be allies when you won't even speak with them face to face. Trust or not, we need our allies not to hate us—and these ones already hate me._ Once aboard Ellaria's flagship, Tyrion comes to a halt before the armed Dornish guardsmen in their yellow and brown armor, a spear striking a bright sun displayed across their shields. Behind them, Ellaria Sand of Dorne emerges from a pair of giant, groaning, black doors. With her are her three daughters, Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene; their serpent-like eyes glaring daggers at him from behind their mother's back. They come to a gentle stop halfway to him, and Tyrion is immediately cautious not to get too close.

"Greetings, My Lady." Tyrion smiles weakly, nodding his head to each of Ellaria's daughters in turn. "I am so glad you could join me today; I must first apologize, however, for Daenerys's absence. She is very busy right now planning the future, but rest assured, I am here on her behalf and anything you wish to say to her can be said to me."

Ellaria cocks her brow, smirking at him as though she could read his mind. "I did not expect to see you so soon, Imp. Would you care to join us inside where we can make ourselves more… comfortable?"

"Ah, no thank you. I'm comfortable right here, I think." _Where I'm in running distance of the bridge across to the Red Wind._

The Sand Snakes take turns smirking at each other as their mother glides across the deck toward Tyrion, coming just short five feet of him now. "Jaime never had his guard up around me and he suffered dearly for it, you're much wiser than him."

"That's the second time I've received that compliment today." Tyrion tries to cast her a friendly smile, in hopes of repairing his image in her eye. Ellaria's disgust for him is plain on her face.

"I will not speak with Daenerys's bitch. Return only with the silver haired Queen or not a tall."

"I'm afraid that's not possible." Tyrion sighs, "There's no sense in us arguing, is there? We're allies, let's be friends."

Ellaria laughs, but it's quick and sharp. "I don't think so, Lannister. Tell me this, at least, do you have Cersei's head?"

"Excuse me?"

" _Your vile sister's head!"_ Ellaria scowls, crossing her arms across her breasts. "Our _Queen_ promised to serve me Cersei's head."

"She promised more than that, Mother." says Nymeria angrily.

"That's right!" says Obara, "She promised we'd get to watch Cersei die with our own eyes."

Suddenly Tyrion remembers Dany saying exactly that, and curses himself for forgetting. _I threw Cersei's head into Blackwater Bay after we picked up Arya in the Red Keep… Shit… Fuck… Shit!_ Afraid of showing his terror, Tyrion wipes his hand across his weary, stubbled face and says, "Ah, yes, well you see, there were some complications."

"What complications?" Ellaria seethes.

"Well, we tried to get to Cersei but the wildfire had already consumed her before we could arrive. There was nothing we could do. Daenerys lost one of her dragons to the wildfire, we had to leave."

"Did you leave before or after the other two dragons were finished burning half of my men?" Ellaria asks.

 _Does the whole world know about that now?_ "I'm sorry that happened, but it was an accident—nobody could've seen it coming, we—"

"Don't give me those _excuses_." spits Ellaria, "You feed me these lies and false promises just like Daenerys. You come from across the sea with an army of dickless slaves and expect everyone to just follow your demands."

"No, we don't, that's not—"

"Let me kill him, Mother." Obara says, flipping her spear around with both hands, a mad grin stretching across her face.

Tyrion backs away, but Ellaria lifts her hand to her daughters and shakes her head. "If we did that we'd have a battle on our hands, and after the losses we've suffered, I cannot afford such a thing."

"Lucky me." Tyrion grumbles, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. "Listen to me, I know Daenerys promised you Cersei's head, but isn't Cersei's death enough? Why can't that sate your ridiculous need for revenge?"

"How am I supposed to believe she's truly dead? You could be smuggling her aboard your ship right now."

Tyrion can't help but laugh this time, tears stinging his eyes. He says, as he's catching his breath, "If I was smuggling Cersei, it would be to torture her, not to keep her safe from the likes of you. Trust me, I hated her more than you can imagine."

"The word of a _Lannister_." Ellaria shakes her head and turns around, heading back to her cabin and daughters, "I have nothing more to say to _you_. Tell your Queen that Dorne will never support her claim, throne or no throne. If she and her dragons ever show their faces in Dorne, be prepared for war… Watch your back, _Lannister_."

Watching the Dornish ships depart southward and the Ironborn sail northwards, Tyrion stands beside himself on board _the Red Wind,_ his hands shaking against his will. _Well… I suppose that could've gone worse for me. Next time I'm asking Arya to come along so she can bring The Mountain._

He returns inside to find a midday meal and perhaps beg some wine out of one of the crewmates. Tyrion finds Arya walking into the mess hall with her giant bodyguard towering over her. Everyone eating casts the Mountain nervous glances as they make way over to pick up a plate of steamed vegetables and charcoaled pork. As Tyrion walks by, Arya looks up from her food with her mouth full and gives him a smile and a wave with her stump of an arm. Tyrion can't help but join her after that.

"You're looking livelier." Tyrion tells her as he sits down across from her with his plate of food.

"And you smell better." Arya replies coyly, "Trying to impress someone?"

Tyrion is too tired and stressed to know what she's getting at. "I've had a shit day, to be honest. Do you mind distracting me? I don't have anything to do until tonight and could use some company that isn't trying to give me a heart attack."

"Uh, what do you want me to say?" Arya asks, shoveling her pork into her mouth with her only hand, not bothering with utensils.

Tyrion glares at her incredulously. "Tell me about yourself, teach me about the enigma that is Arya Stark. Just give me something else to think about…"

Arya looks up at the dark ceiling thoughtfully, chewing on her meat. "Well… I guess I could tell you about my sword."

"Your sword?"

Arya nods and wrestles out the skinny blade from her sheath. Tyrion notices she's keeping a second sword at her side as well, one with a ruby in its hilt similar to Joffrey's sword that he received at his wedding. Before Tyrion can question it, Arya holds Needle up into the candle light with a huge smile. "This is Needle. Jon gave it to me before he went to The Wall. It was the last time I ever saw'r him." She beams like she's half her age, and Tyrion can tell this sword means everything to her. _Jon never said anything about this sword, but I wouldn't put it past him to give her one like this._

"It fits you." He tells her and she nods, returning Needle to her hip. "I didn't know Jon could forge a blade like this."

"It wasn't him, it was Winterfell's Blacksmith, Mikken."

"Ah, Mikken. I've heard of him." Tyrion picks up his goblet of juice and drinks it, wishing it was wine. "Tell me about the other sword you've got there…"

"This?" Arya's grin grows as she unsheathes the Valyrian Steel. "This was Cersei's sword."

Tyrion notices there's still blood crusting all the way down the edge, and asks, "Whose blood is this?"

"A little of mine… but it's mostly her's." Arya says, a fire burning in her eyes. "I used her own sword to cut her head off. It's mine now, and I'm not giving it to you, so don't think about asking."

"I wasn't going to." Tyrion reassures her, "You earned it. I feel I should inform you, though… that sword originally belonged to Joffrey."

"No, it didn't." Arya casts him a dirty look, "It belonged to my father."

"Eddard Stark? Are you positive about that?"

" _Yes!"_ Arya insists, "Cersei told me right before she died. She said her father had my father's sword melted down into two swords, and one of them is this one."

Tyrion's heart skips a beat, imagining Arya sitting on top of Cersei with the Valyrian Steel against her throat. "I imagine Cersei wasn't so willing to talk."

"No, I had to force some things out of her…" Arya looks down at her empty plate, suddenly deep in introspection. _She's remembering it right now… I shouldn't pry, but I'm itching to know more. I want to know what Cersei's last words were, what she looked like when she realized she was going to die…_

"She told me Joffrey named it Widow's Wale… But I changed that." Arya holds up the long, bloody blade in the air, capturing the room's attention. "It's name is now, _Bloody Stranger_."

Blinking at her, Tyrion suppresses the urge to laugh. "Bloody Stranger?"

"That's right." Arya puts it away, laughing. "I decided I'm never going to clean it. I wanted Cersei's head, but I'll settle for her blood."

"That's… grim." Tyrion sighs, "Valyrian Steel is quite valuable, you know. You could sell it for a fortune once we land on Dragonstone."

"I'm already making a fortune, aren't I? I'm the Queen's Assassin now." Arya smirks.

"Well, we haven't sorted out your payment yet—but it'll come. Just by staying with us you're already covered on basic living needs. Once we're in Dragonstone, I'll make sure you have a proper room."

"Can I have the Mountain stand guard outside my door like Cersei did? I don't want him in my room… Ever."

"That's reasonable… I'll have to find you a room that doesn't have any through-traffic, nobody is going to want to walk past your… _friend_." Tyrion looks to The Mountain and smiles nervously, "No offense."

"Well, I'm not selling Bloody Stranger." Arya shrugs.

"You can't even hold two swords at once anymore."

"So? I can switch! It's not hard."

"You say that now, but in the heat of the moment—with only one hand, you'll have to decide ahead of time which sword you want to use and be prepared to keep using it. Sliding it in and out of a scabbard is easy when you're sitting down eating pork, but in the middle of a fight…"

"You've been in lots of fights, have you?" Arya scowls.

"A few." Tyrion nods, "Would you like to hear about how I killed thousands of men on Blackwater Bay with only my axe and my wits?"

" _Thousands_?" Arya repeats in disbelief.

"Well, after a couple hours of fighting it sure felt like thousands… Probably closer to twenty or thirty, if I'm being honest."

Arya scoffs, "Oh, is that all? I've killed way more than that."

For the next few hours, Arya tells Tyrion all about her travels; how she ended up in Harrenhal with Gendry and Hot Pie, worked for his father, Tywin, as his cup bearer without him even knowing it was her, escaped with the help of Jaqen H'gar and received a coin to go to Braavos, how she met up with the traveling band of bandits and thieves known as the Brotherhood without Banners, how they sold Gendry to the Red Woman, Melisandre, for gold (this part, Tyrion found most interesting, as last he'd heard of the Red Woman was of her scheming with Stannis up in the north). Arya also shared how The Hound took her to The Twins just before the Red Wedding, how she was only a few feet away from entering the castle to save her mother and brother, but was knocked out and taken away. Tyrion learns all about her adventures with The Hound, and at the end of her tale, Arya recalls how he got in a brawl with some big brute of a woman whose name Arya can't remember.

"I thought he died. He begged me to kill him, but I couldn't do it."

"You'd grown close. It's only natural."

"No. I _hated_ him… He killed my friend. I can never forgive that. But…" Arya narrows her eyes and glares up at The Mountain beside her.

"But what?"

"I could see myself becoming just like him… just hating everyone and everything. Killing whoever I wanted just for crossing me… He was alone, always alone, just like me…"

"I'm sorry." Tyrion says, not knowing what else to say.

"Did you know him?"

"Not personally. He was never very fond of me." Tyrion wryly smiles, remembering all the times he ignored Tyrion's orders. "He saved your sister from a mob, once. I tried to tell him he did good work that day, but he basically told me to fuck myself."

"He told me about that." Arya says, leaning back in her chair. "I think he had a crush on Sansa or something, he always talked about how he should have fucked her when he had the chance."

"Just because I can say "Fuck" doesn't mean you should, Arya. You're still a child."

"Fuck you."

 _I'm a rotten influence._ Tyrion gets up from the table, feeling marginally better, but as soon as he's on his feet again, the weight of his meetings with Olenna and Ellaria makes him feel sick. "Well, Arya, I must bid you farewell for now. I have a date I must prepare for."

"You have a date?" Arya lifts her brow.

"Yes, a date. The kind adults have. Hopefully with wine."

"So, you finally told her." Arya stands as well and Tyrion gawps at her, confused.

"What?"

"Daenerys. You told her you love her, didn't you?"

Instantly blushing, Tyrion comes to a halt and rounds on Arya, eyeing the room to make sure nobody just heard her say that. Luckily most of the Unsullied and ship-hands have already left, but there's still a few sitting in the shadows.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but it's not funny." Tyrion seethes, wishing he could control the heat in his face.

"Oh please, even if I wasn't trained by Faceless Men, I could tell you're lying."

Tyrion grabs her by her wrist and leads her out of the room. He realizes this is a mistake, for as soon as he touches Arya, The Mountain rises from behind her with his hand around the hilt of his greatsword—slowly drawing it out.

"At ease, Mount Fuckhead." Arya scolds her guard as Tyrion quickly withdraws his hand. "I can walk myself out, thanks. No need to get all handsy." She holds her stump up and points it at him when she says this, giving him a whiff of the congealed blood beneath her bandages.

Once they're in the corridor away from prying ears, Tyrion crosses his arms, glaring up into Arya's eyes. _This day just gets worse and worse._ "What do you think you're _doing_? You can't just say something like that, not in public!"

"Why?" Arya asks, soundly genuinely curious.

"Because you can't trust everyone, and that's sensitive information you're just blabbing off."

"So… then it's true?" Arya grins, " _Did_ you tell her?"

"No! _Stop asking that!_ " Tyrion starts to walk away but Arya keeps up with him, and the Mountain keeps up with her. _I can't believe this girl._ "Would you stop following me?!"

"I just spilled my guts out to you!" Arya hisses back at him, "Least you can do is share back. I already know, so you might as well spill it. I won't tell her, I swear!"

"There's nothing to tell!" Tyrion insists, "My relationship with Daenerys is purely political. I'm her Hand, nothing more. There's no romantic feelings between us in the least, understand?"

Arya stops following him, her hand on her hip, a cocky look on her face, as Tyrion walks away; she says, "Don't worry, I understand... _Denial_ is a powerful thing."

"Fuck you." grumbles Tyrion.

His final meeting for the day really is a date, but it was definitely not with Daenerys; and though Tyrion had bathed, shaved, and prepared his cabin with a special selection of food and drink (though no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find alcohol) Tyrion would hardly call this date any more romantic than his feelings toward Dany. As he prepared for his evening, all Tyrion can think about is what Arya said. _Why is this bothering me? Of course I don't love Daenerys. That's just stupid. I'm old enough to be her father (though so was Jorah), she's a Targaryen (and I'm a filthy Lannister), and she's the Queen—oh, and I'm a fucking Dwarf. Dany might be into men and women, but nobody can love a monster… Stop thinking about it. Arya was just teasing me, and she's only a child. Her words shouldn't be bothering me this much…_

When his date arrives, Tyrion's room is alight with an assortment of different candles to help set the mood. Handmaidens had prepared them a wide variety of food for dinner, from cooked salmon to lamprey pie ( _so we do have pies, and this one's baked in wine so we must have some on board somewhere_.) Tyrion sits at his table in waiting, and when the door opens, he looks up from his thoughts and smiles a strained smile up at High Priestess Kinvara.

The Lady from Volantis is just as beautiful as ever. Her black, curly hair is tied in an elegant bun behind her head, her eyes are adorned in black make-up, and her red dress leaves little to the imagination, accentuating the swell of her breasts. Tyrion is instantly attracted to her, but keeps his game face on as she slowly glides to his table with her hands folded over her lap, smiling serenely into his eyes. "Good evening, My Lord."

"Good evening to you, My Lady. Please, sit." Tyrion lifts his hand and gestures to the chair across from him. Lady Kinvara judges it for a moment as though deciding whether or not to sit, before settling herself in the chair with her head held high, her smile unwavering. Tyrion nods to the handmaidens, signaling they can leave. Before they do, Tyrion calls, "If you can, bring us some wine!"

"I do not partake of such delights, My Lord." Kinvara says, bowing her head respectfully.

"No, of course you don't." Tyrion sighs as the handmaidens leave.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?" Kinvara asks, tilting her head a little, exposing her slender neck encased in a strange, ruby-filled necklace.

Tyrion picks up a knife and fork, carving a piece of his salmon off. "I wanted to get to know you better, that's all. This might sound blunt, but you are a very mysterious woman."

"Am I?" Kinvara asks sweetly, her food untouched.

"I'm positive you know more than you're letting on." Tyrion says, biting into his fish.

"Know more about what, specifically?" asks Kinvara.

"Well, for starters…" Tyrion picks up his goblet of marmalade and gulps it down, "How did you get to be so beautiful?"

Kinvara leans back in her chair, chuckling softly. "You flatter me, My Lord."

"I mean it, you must be aware of it. I've even seen Unsullied men give you double-takes. There's not many women who carry themselves like you do, with such… _confidence_." Tyrion watches her from over his goblet before setting it down and returning to his fish. "I must admit, you've intrigued my interest."

"Interest in what?" Kinvara asks mockingly.

"Oh, I think that's fairly obvious." Tyrion laughs, though his nerves are squirming. _Is she buying this?_ "I believe we had chemistry earlier… I would like you to spend a night with me."

Kinvara's eyes never leave his, and he feels a strange tingling in the back of his head as though someone had just brushed their finger along his scalp. Kinvara's red lips smile wider. "Alright, Lord Tyrion. Tonight, I'm yours."

Feeling uneasy all of the sudden, Tyrion tries to relax a little in his chair to not give off the appearance of someone interrogating their guest. _Even though right now she's more my prisoner than guest, I have to convince her I'm only interested in her body. She's too smart to answer my questions directly._ "I'm glad to hear it." He says, "Tell me, do you have a family name or is it just Kinvara?"

"We abandon our family names when we join the Lord of Light's service. I am Lady Kinvara of Volantis, and that is all."

"I see. Fair enough. Have you lived in Volantis your entire life?"

"No." Kinvara says, "I was born in Westeros but I was sold into slavery by Ironborn Pirates when they invaded my home and killed my family."

"From slave to High Priestess of Volantis. That sounds like a story." Tyrion says.

"I'm not the only one who made their beginnings in slavery. Many of us started as slaves. Even you, Lord Tyrion, were once a slave, were you not?"

"Excuse me?"

"A slave to your father, Tywin. A slave to your sister, Cersei…" Kinvara finally lifts her hand to her goblet of water and takes a small sip, batting her gorgeous eyes at him. "I was a slave to a man who I can't even remember the name of, but I'll always remember his face."

Tyrion picks up his marmalade, frowning now. "I'm sorry. Perhaps we should discuss a lighter topic?"

"Why discuss anything?" Kinvara asks, "You asked me her for one thing, and it's getting late. Shall we retire to your bed?"

"What of your food? I prepared this meal for you."

"And I appreciate it whole-heartedly, My Lord. But I have a different sort of hunger…" Kinvara says and Tyrion feels his erection slide along his thigh as if propelled by magic.

 _Shit, she really means to fuck me right now. I didn't intend on this happening so soon…_ Tyrion glances at his bed, wondering if he should come clean with his intentions. _It's been so long since I've laid with a woman… it's been since Shae. Do I even have it in me to do it anymore? I couldn't with the whore in Volantis…_ Daenerys suddenly appears in his mind, smiling at him over her shoulder as they ride Drogon through the sky…

"What's wrong, My Lord?" Kinvara asks, absentmindedly tracing her fingers along her collar bone.

"I apologize, Kinvara, but I haven't been completely honest with you." Tyrion sighs, setting his knife and fork down. "I did not invite you here to fuck me. I invited you here to interrogate you."

"I know." Kinvara smiles, lowering her hand and losing the flirtatious demeanor.

"You know?" Tyrion gawks at her, "How?"

"The same way I know about your history with Tywin and Cersei. The same way I know right now you're wishing I was Daenerys." Kinvara lifts her finger to her temple, and Tyrion understands, but cannot believe it.

"You can hear my thoughts?"

"I can hear everyone's secrets, desires, and dreams." Kinvara replies smoothly, "It's the gift I received from The Lord of Light for my devout service. I wasn't always able to, it developed over time like any skill. Your thoughts are scattered and arguing with each other constantly, almost as though you have multiple conscious-voices competing for control. It's quite illuminating, sitting here listening to you struggle. You've had a rough day, haven't you?"

"Day isn't over yet." Tyrion mutters, feeling numb and strangely vulnerable. "Alright, I'll bite for now. How did the Lord of Light give you this… gift?"

"I don't question how The Lord is able to do what he does. He is everywhere, watching everyone—but he's also trapped, unable to act with his body, so he must act with magic. Magic is the greatest gift the Lord can give you." Kinvara says quietly, "Some use it to further their own dark desires, but not me. I can hear the Lord's voice, and I know his plans for us all."

"What was the Lord's plans for Jorah Mormont?" Tyrion asks, getting to the heart of the matter at last.

"You witnessed it for yourself." Kinvara replies.

"So, the wildfire…"

"The Lord of Light reached down and helped Jorah achieve what he was meant to that day."

"That's…" Tyrion shakes his head, remembering what Kinvara once told him after they'd picked her up from Victarion. _Jorah owes the Lord a debt for his life, and only death can pay for life._ "Thousands of people, _innocent_ people, died that day. How could you so calmly sit there and say it was meant to be?"

"Because it's the truth."

"I see…" Tyrion doesn't hide his contempt for her now. "You do realize that you just admitted to mass murder? Because of you, Jorah set off the wildfire instead of preventing it."

"I'm well aware of where this is going." Kinvara replies coldly, "If you wish to place the blame on me, then so be it; for I would gladly die for the Lord of Light. I knew your intentions as soon as I walked into the room, Lord Tyrion. Daenerys has quite a hold over you."

"Then you won't be surprised to find Unsullied guards waiting outside my door to escort you to a holding cell until we arrive on Dragonstone." Tyrion smiles, "It's a shame it had to come to this. I'm sure you would've been a magnificent lay, but I have standards and sleeping with insane murderers isn't one of them."

Kinvara and Tyrion both rise from their table, and the candles around the room all flicker at once as if some invisible, noiseless wind had swept through the room. Kinvara just smiles at Tyrion as he opens the doors for her to leave. The Unsullied Tyrion had prepared just in case are standing where he'd predicted, and they escort Kinvara out into the hall. She walks with grace, unashamed, and full of dignity. Tyrion watches her go with a sinking feeling in his heart…


	18. Jaime II

Jaime

It's warmer down here than other dungeons he's stayed in, and Jaime can't explain why that is. The dungeon is pitch black for the most part save a single burning torch about thirty feet down the moist, stone tunnel near the Gaoler's chambers. The air is stuffy and hot, making every breath a strain on his lungs. After his first night, Jaime had to remove his clothing just to free his sweating skin. The Gaoler didn't like that too much, and threatened to club him if he didn't stay dressed. So Jaime waited until the Gaoler was sleeping to go nude. _I can't be sure if it's truly night right now, or if it's just the Long Night playing tricks on me. I can't have been in here for more than twenty-four hours… but it's difficult to keep track of time with nothing but shadows for company._

A few cells down, Jaime hears Howland Reed sobbing from within the shadows of his cage. Ever since the old man was thrown down here, all he ever did was cry. Jaime had never heard such a pathetic sound before in his life. It was the sound of an old man who'd given up but is too afraid to die. _How could Jon Snow be killed by such a craven? He spends one night in a dungeon and all I hear from him is his wailing and moaning._ Whenever their Gaoler came by to feed them, Howland would beg for parchment and quill so that he could write his daughter and explain to her what happened. Jaime has to hand it to the Gaoler though; the fat, ugly man didn't laugh, nor did he offer sympathy. He simply scowled at Howland and slid his dish of moldy food under the bars of his door. Never a word, the Gaoler is a tough looking brute of a man that even Jaime isn't sure he could take in a fight without a proper sword ( _and another hand would be nice_.)

Lying on a bed of straw and mud, Jaime Lannister has his legs crossed over one-another while his hand rests under his head. Even naked, his muscles produce sweat and his blonde hair clings to his forehead. _I'll never understand how it could be so hot down here when just twenty feet above my head is a raging snow-storm._

This isn't his first time being locked away by the Starks. He'd spent the better part of a year in captivity to Robb and Catelyn Stark, but at least they needed him alive. Sansa does not, and with Littlefinger at her side, Jaime considered himself dead already. _If I am even given a proper trial, the only way out will be through a trial by combat. Sansa will not like that, but she'll have no other choice to give me a chance… unless she truly is mad as Cersei._

The letter that incriminated him sits on the muddy floor beside him, crinkled up in a ball. Aside from his clothes, the letter is the only thing they allowed him to keep; and not out of kindness. _It's to torture me… I must've read the damn thing a hundred times over now…_

With nothing to do, Jaime reaches down and picks up the crumpled letter…

 _Jaime, I need you._

 _Forget everything I told you, I don't care about collecting Jon or Sansa's heads anymore. King's Landing is under siege by Daenerys Targaryen, and she has three dragons. With dragons, it doesn't matter how big our army is, or how tall our walls are! She'll burn it all down and everything I worked so hard for will be for nothing! Our children's deaths will be for nothing! You must return to me at once, Jaime! I will not hear otherwise! I don't care what you have to do, just return to me before it's too late. I don't know how long we'll be able to hold her off… If it comes down to it, I'll use the wildfire. I won't give up my throne, or my crown…_

 _I know I hurt you when I had Bronn's head removed… I'm terribly sorry, Jaime. You must know that I only did it to preserve our love. I had to ensure you'd never leave me, and out of my own selfishness, I sent you away anyway. I never should have done that. If you come back, I'll make sure you never have to leave my side again, dearest brother… dearest lover. I love you with all my heart, Jaime._

 _I need you._

Tears sting his eyes as Jaime lowers the letter to his chest. _How could she be so stupid? She must've realized this letter wouldn't reach me in time. Was she just in a panic? This Daenerys must've frightened her terribly… Thank you, Cersei. With your last words, you've ensured that I'll truly never leave your side; for we'll be united together in the Seven Hells. Fuck. Is this how the Lannister name dies? Father must be churning in his grave._

 _Creeeek!_ The door down the tunnel opens and Jaime hears a familiar voice. He propels himself out of bed and goes to the bars of his cell to find Brienne of Tarth striding into the dungeons beside the grumpy Gaoler. When their eyes meet, Jaime gives her a weak, abysmal smile that she does not return. _From here, it looks like she's glaring at me. She must know the truth by now. I'm in for it, aren't I?_

" _You get fivesss minutesss_." hisses the Gaoler before slamming the door shut and leaving Brienne standing before Jaime in silence.

"Good morning." Jaime grins at her.

Brienne's eyes dart down to his dangling cock for only the briefest of seconds before planting themselves firmly on the ceiling. "For God's sake, can you please get dressed?"

"I would but I'm sweating like a pig enough as it is." Jaime sighs, knowing he must not smell pleasant right now either. "It's not like you haven't seen me naked before, Brienne. Don't be such a lady."

Brienne glares him in the eyes, and Jaime immediately regrets saying anything. "I didn't come here to gawk at you in the nude."

"Then why did you come? Miss me?"

"Hardly." Brienne scowls, keeping her eyes above his neckline. _She's furious with me already. Go on, Brienne… I deserve it._ "I came because…"

"Go on, Brienne. Spit it out."

"Because I want to hear the truth."

Jaime scoffs, "Surely Sansa must've told you everything."

"I want to hear it from you."

Jaime shoves his letter through the bars, and Brienne cautiously receives it. "Everything you want to know is written on there…" He mumbles, withdrawing himself from his cage to sit back down on his bed (he covers his lap with some straw for Brienne's sake).

"I'm not interested in reading this…" Brienne growls, "I told you, I want to hear it from you."

"Well it's all true, Brienne. Every word of it. Cersei sent me to kill Sansa and Jon and return with their heads. Was I forced to do it? Yes, but is that going to matter to Sansa? No. So there's really no point in discussing this. I'm fucked, Brienne."

"Why did you lie to me?" Brienne asks quietly, "You could've told me…"

Jaime barks with rough laughter, wiping tears out of his eyes. "And what would you have done? Slice me down with that sword I gave you? Or would you help me kill the woman you're sworn to protect?"

"I don't have Oathkeeper anymore." Brienne reminds him sourly, "And I wouldn't have killed you, Jaime. I would've tried to convince you not to do it."

"Well you'd fail, and I didn't want to hear it. Eventually, and you know this is true, we'd have to fight. You'd be forced to defend her, and I'd be forced to try and kill her. I wanted to prevent that from happening for as long as I could. I was going to earn Sansa's trust and eventually lead her into a trap, but my sweet sister has made sure that if she's going down, I'm going down with her, so… lucky me, I got my wish."

Brienne shakes her head, and Jaime can see anguish clearly displayed on her face. _Why is she so hurt? She should know better than to trust a man like me…_ Brienne says, "You could have said no to her, when Cersei made you come here… You could've lied to her, but instead you obey her every order like a whipped dog."

"And how are you any different?" Jaime bites back, sounding harsher than he intended, but he can't help himself. "Cersei is my sister. Sansa is your Lady. We both answer to the people we love, Brienne… Do not fault me for it."

Brienne looks like she wants to say more, but her lips are firmly sealed as she turns and begins to leave him… before she reaches the door, however, she looks over her shoulder and catches Jaime's eye on last time, saying, "Your trial is tomorrow… If you demand a trial by combat, she will grant you it…"

"Splendid." Jaime grumbles sarcastically, "Maybe I'll have a chance of getting out of this alive after-all…"

But then Brienne says, "You'd be fighting me."

Jaime watches her leave and hears the door creek shut before rolling over in his pile of straw, staring at the stump of his right arm where his hand used to be. They'd even removed his golden counterpart, just in case he tried to slap his way out. Brienne's final words echo with dread in his mind, and Jaime decides that there's only one thing that's certain now… _I'm a dead man._


	19. Sansa II

Sansa

The sky is black as night, yet her internal sense of time says that the sun should be rising over her tower by now. _I've never lived through a Long Night. This will be my first winter, and they say it'll be the longest we've had in centuries._

From her window, Sansa observes it all. Even under the cover of darkness, the bright, white snow that blankets the land allows her to see for miles in all directions, through the rolling hills to her north, to the powdered forest on her west and south. _I wish I could stay up here for hours longer, but I have duties to attend to…_

The first of which is seeing Littlefinger and the rest of the Northern Lords off. After the night they had, the men gathering in the courtyard are stumbling about as they arm themselves for the long march south. Some, Sansa suspects, are still drunk and full from dinner. _I'll be glad to be rid of them at last. With so many men in Winterfell, our food stores have shrunk… Jon was right, we won't last long without support. I'm relying on Littlefinger for that as well._ Littlefinger had insured her that he has allies in the south that are more than willing to owe him a favor, and that sending food would be of no consequence. _I just hope he's not lying about that. He can't be. He'll need my help taking the throne, or the North will never support his claim. We need each other… but I won't need him long._

Saying goodbye to Petyr Baelish is what Sansa's been looking forward to more than anything since becoming Queen of the North. Once she's dressed, Sansa heads down the long, spiraling staircase to the bottom of her family's castle, nodding pleasantly to her passing handmaidens and guards as they do their duty. Despite the cold, everyone is working hard. Brienne is in the Grey Hall with her Squire, Podrick Payne, and when Sansa approaches, both of them bow down to their knees in respect.

"Good morning, My Lady Sansa. I hope you've slept well." Brienne says, rising from her knee, standing twice as tall as Sansa and covered from neck to foot in heavy armor. She has a sword on her hilt, but it's not Oathkeeper.

"I slept fine, thank you." Sansa tells Brienne, "Tell me, Brienne… Where is your sword?"

Brienne blinks, confused for a moment, before realizing what she was getting at. "Oathkeeper was stolen from me by Howland Reed, Your Grace."

"Did you question him on where it is now?" Sansa asks, knowing Brienne would've gone down to the dungeons by now to visit Jaime.

"Not yet." Brienne says, "He wouldn't tell me anyway, I suspect. I'd rather wait to question him on the matter during his trial, where he'll be forced to give the truth."

"It's a shame. I liked that sword." Sansa smiles warmly at her and Brienne nods bashfully.

"I did as well…"

They accompany her outside, into the blistering snowstorm. Sansa's face freezes and her nose goes numb, but she keeps her eyes steady on her target. Littlefinger is standing with the other Lords, watching as their army proceeds through the gates of Winterfell. Littlefinger notices her approach, smiles wide, and bows his head to her. " _Your Grace_."

Lords Manderly, Cerwyn, and Glover all repeat the words, bowing their heads as well. Sansa smiles and stops short of them, her feet buried in the snow. "I've come to see you off, My Lords, and wish you all safe travels and a successful endeavor."

"Of course, Your Grace." Littlefinger says, eyeing the other Lords with a slithering grin, "I will ensure that your enemies rue the day they crossed the Starks, have no fear."

 _That's what you think, Baelish_. Sansa nods and smiles. Lord Glover is glaring at Littlefinger with clear distrust written all over his face. Petyr notices Glover glaring his way, and his narrow eyes linger on the Northman's scowl…

"I trust you, all of you." Sansa tells them, "Thank you, my Lords."

"No need to thank us, Your Grace." Lord Manderly laughs, "I've been looking forward to kickin' the shit out of the Lannisters for decades."

"We must avenge the Red Wedding once and for all." Lord Cerwyn agrees furiously.

Lord Glover remains silent as ever. Littlefinger rounds on him and asks, "What of you, Lord Glover?"

"What of me?" Glover retorts, one eye twitching with annoyance.

"You have the look of a man who wishes to say what's on his mind."

"Aye, maybe I would—if I didn't stand to lose my head over it." Lord Glover casts Sansa a foul glare now, and she feels an intense desire to scold him—but resists this time.

"Lord Glover, I appreciate your help and your honesty. I only ask that you trust me." Sansa says to him.

Lord Glover's lips squirm as he shuffles about in the snow. "I trust you, Your Grace. I don't trust _him_."

"That much is obvious." Littlefinger chuckles, unabashed by the insult directed his way.

"I trust him." Sansa says quickly and firmly, and even Littlefinger stops laughing and stares at Sansa as though he couldn't quite believe his ears. "If you trust me, but cannot trust Littlefinger, then trust in my trust. Understand?"

"Aye…" Glover appears bewildered, but keeps his temper in check. _Please don't make this an issue, Lord Glover. I need you too._

"I expect constant updates from all four of you regarding the army's health and movements. I want to know everything. Every day there should be a new letter arriving at my tower, whether it be dark words or not, just keep me informed."

"Yes, Your Grace." Repeat the four Lords.

"Then without further delay, I bid you all farewell."

The other Lords head out, but Littlefinger stays a minute longer. "May we share a word in private, Your Grace?"

"No." Sansa replies coldly, "There's nothing more to discuss."

"Ah. Well, then…" Littlefinger almost looks like he regrets something, but Sansa can't quite picture what. "If we never see each other again, Sansa, I want you to know something."

"Anything you have to say can be said in front of Brienne." Sansa replies. Brienne smiles and perks her head up at this.

"Of course," Littlefinger's eyes flicker over Sansa's shoulder, as if noticing something odd… before returning his gaze to Sansa's face. "Just know that I truly do love you, and I hope that you will someday forgive me for everything I've done wrong. You're an amazing woman, and I consider myself blessed to be able to watch you grow. Be strong… Sansa."

 _Be strong…_ The Hound had said similar words to her when she'd confessed to him her feelings about being weak and powerless. _Fight it, anyway you can. Fight until you can't fight anymore._ His words had inspired her, but hearing the same words come out of Littlefinger's lips, tarnishes the advice for her. _Oh, I'll be strong, Petyr. Just you wait. Once I have no use for you, I'll show you exactly how strong I can be._

"Thank you, Petyr. I appreciate your kind words." Sansa smiles, leans in, and plants a kiss on his cheek. When she pulls away, Littlefinger's smile is gone, replaced with stone.

Littlefinger and his Knights of the Vale leave through Winterfell's giant, wooden gates. His cape billowing through the cold, white blizzard is the last she sees of him before the gates groan close.

Sansa turns around, expecting to see a courtyard empty—for now that her army is gone, only a handful of Stark soldiers and small-folk should be left—instead Sansa finds that there's still plenty of people living here… People with green skin and long, muddy hair… carrying three-pronged spears. _The Crannogmen… Did they come to watch the army leave as well?_

It turns out this assumption was true, but not for the reasons Sansa expected. Originally, Howland Reed was going to lead the Crannogmen alongside Littlefinger and the rest of Sansa's army—but with Reed's arrest, his people refused to join her army, and had taken to silent protesting. The thing Sansa has failed to realize is that the only reason the Crannogmen stuck to silently protesting, was because Sansa's army would be there to stop them from doing much else.

As soon as the gates had closed, they appear from the shadows carrying spears, their faces full of menace and despair. Brienne realizes what's about to happen before Sansa does, and draws her sword, while Sansa just blinks and stands there, stupefied.

"Call the men back, Sansa!" Brienne barks, "The Crannogmen are—"

A spear soars silently through the air and plummets down into the snow next to Brienne's boot. A deep, frog-like grumbling song emanates from each of the fifty or so Crannogmen surrounding them, the snow whipping their hair back. Another few toss their spears, aiming for them—but Brienne is quick and slashes her swords in time to deflect one coming straight for Sansa.

 _What's going on?_ Sansa slips and falls into the snow, tears in her eyes. Shouts from the Stark guards on the gates sound off as several men come rushing down to defend their Queen. Brienne roars at Pod to fight as she drives her sword into a charging Crannogmen, spilling his red, steaming guts into the snow. Podrick scrambles to pull his shortsword out. More of her men are rushing down from the walls to help—but as they do, even more Crannogmen appear—at least a hundred in all. Sansa notices some of them flee the battle to go to the dungeons. Arrows and spears fly every which-way, and Sansa is in the middle of it all, unable to fight, unable to be strong—Sansa simply sits in the snow and watches until she can't take it anymore. She closes her eyes. _If I die, let it be quick. Let it be painless…_

An uncertain amount of time passes with Sansa staring into her closed eye-lids before the last scream dies off and the sound of fighting disappears. With great fear, she opens her eyes…

Brienne is still standing—now covered in blood, her blonde hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. Pod is beside her, having trouble pulling his blade out from a Crannogmen's spine. They're not alone—there's Knights of the Vale here as well, still striking down the last of the rebel Crannogmen without mercy. Sansa blinks as a hand gently cups her shoulder. She looks up into the smiling eyes of Littlefinger.

"Are you alright, Your Grace?"

Sansa can't believe he's still here. Instead of answering him, Sansa keels over and pukes into the snow.

Littlefinger straightens up, still smirking, and observes the courtyard of Winterfell. "I admit, I did not expect Howland's people to act like such animals. Well done, Brienne of Tarth."

"I do not need your thanks, Littlefinger. I was simply defending my Queen." Brienne growls over her shoulder at him, helping Sansa up to her feet.

The other Lords are there as well, all gasping and staring around at the bodies that litter the courtyard. "We can't leave her side now! It's not safe!" blusters Lord Manderly.

"Don't be a fool, My Lord." Littlefinger says, "We can still leave, we'll just need to ensure the Queen's safety before we do." He glares around at his Knights and says, "Find the rest of them—man, woman, child—and send them packing."

"My Lord, not all the Crannogmen are guilty of this crime…" Brienne says, "There's over ten thousand of them here, and only a hundred of them took part in this. They tried to rescue their leader, and they failed. There's no need to punish the innocent for the guilty's crimes."

"The safety of Lady Sansa is all I care for, not the lives of these sorry animals." Littlefinger replies coldly, "Sansa, I'm sure you must agree?"

Sansa is still in shock to even take in what was being said. "Just get rid of them… I'm going up to my room."

" _Lady Sansa!"_ Brienne gasps, but Sansa ignores her, slowly treading through the snow back up to her tower.


	20. Daenerys II

Daenerys

"You're telling me they're _gone_?"

"Yes, Your Grace…"

"How many?"

"Sorry?"

"How many men do I have left in my army?"

Tyrion allows himself a hard swallow before answering her. "With the loss of the Dothraki we had fifty thousand by my guess. Without the Tyrells, The Martells, or the Ironborn our numbers are not… _the best_ , at the moment…"

"Give me the number." Daenerys demands, her voice sounding colder than she intends.

Tyrion nods, glancing at Varys before saying, "Well, counting the injured, we have Unsullied and a handful of Dothraki. So just over six-thousand, but if we're being realistic—half of that number is far too injured or sick to fight for a long time."

"When we arrive on Dragonstone they will be given everything they need to recover, whatever the cost." Dany says firmly, shifting her gaze out her window so she can watch the fish swim along under the sea. _I've lost so much already, losing my allies hardly seems to matter…_ Tyrion wouldn't agree, though. He's looking at her apprehensively, as though waiting to see if she might explode on him. Dany returns her attention to him, unable to bring herself to smile like she used to when addressing the Dwarf. _My heart is numb for Drogon… for Jorah Mormont… and all who died because of me. I'm no Queen. I was never meant to be Queen…_

"Is there more?" Dany asks quietly, sitting down on her bed with her hands carefully folded over her lap.

Tyrion nods sheepishly. "I've looked into the matter we discussed earlier concerning our Red Woman."

"You mean that vile sorceress?" Varys pipes in with his sing-song voice, frowning down at Tyrion with displeasure at the mention of Kinvara. "What has she done this time, I wonder?"

"Funny you should ask." Tyrion growls, "She admitted to me that she was well aware of what would happen to Jorah Mormont—that her Lord of Light reached down from the heavens and used Jorah to ignite the wildfire. Whether or not it's true, she _believes_ it's true. It's as close to a confession as we can get, Daenerys."

 _So the witch is responsible._ Dany's slender fingers bury themselves into the palms of her hands, but she hardly feels it. "You're telling me this woman… she used Jorah—used me—to achieve her God's demands?"

"Yes. It would appear so."

"I never trusted her." Varys tuts, turning his bald head side-to-side while his arms cross over his chest. "Anyone who claims to be able to speak with Gods can never be trusted with sanity, I'm afraid."

"If she's right, then she's responsible for Drogon's death as well." Daenerys says, an intense heat melting the numbness in her chest. Suddenly she wants nothing more than to find this Kinvara and rip her limb from limb with her own bare hands.

"How far must we take this?" Tyrion asks, sounding exhausted.

"As far as it needs be."

"Are we going to take her word then that it was really this… _Lord of Light_ nonsense? Or are we going to disregard her claims and punish her just for being insane? What if she had nothing to do with it at all, and this is just some ruse?" Tyrion glances between Varys and Dany when he asks this, but neither of them look like they agree.

"You got the confession from her yourself." Varys says pointedly, "You interrogated her and told us of her confession, so a part of you must believe her, surely?"

"I did." Tyrion mutters, "But I'm never certain about anything until I've seen absolute evidence with my own eyes—and as I've never met this Lord of Light, I can't say I believe her story, not without being skeptical."

"Did she say why this was her God's will?" Dany asks through gritted teeth.

Tyrion nods slowly, "Yes, though you won't like the answer."

"Speak it."

"She said _it was meant to be_." Tyrion tries to smirk as though he found it funny, but Dany feels as though she'll never be able to smile again.

"That's hardly an answer." says Varys, rolling his eyes. "Typical sorceress way of avoiding a question."

"She hardly seemed to avoid any other of my questions." Tyrion replies coyly.

"If it was meant to be, then why did she need interfere at all? Fate is a comforting concept, but not a practical one." Varys says with a tilt of his bald head. "I have trouble believing her word that she had anything to do with the wildfire incident. She's looking for fame, and she found it in this wild fantasy of her's."

"If that's true, then why risk her life over this?" Tyrion asks him, "She's not trying to deny her crimes at all. She's fully aware of the consequences of this and she did it anyway…"

"I don't care." Daenerys says to them, making both men fall silent. Dany strides past them over to her dresser where, lying on the surface is a half-finished love poem Jorah had been working on for her. It was terribly written. Jorah was, after-all, not a poet. Dany had found it crumpled up underneath his side of the bed not long after the battle…

 _I'm writing this as I listen to you breathe beside me, endlessly soft_

 _Like the rocking of the ocean against the boat, back and forth_

 _I could listen to you sleep for the_

The poem stops there. _I never even got to hear the rhyme. Why did he stop writing this? Why did he hide it from me? Was he ever going to finish it? So many unanswered questions…_

"Your Grace?"

"I want her brought before me at once, above deck. Have everyone sailing stop the ships and gather around _the Red Wind_. I want everyone still on my side to understand something going forward." Daenerys says as she slides the crumpled poem between her breasts. _Nobody fucks with me._

Within the hour, Daenerys's commands are met, and she finds herself standing before the Red Woman. Tyrion is on her left, Varys and Missandei (her face weary and tired from tears) on her right, and the entirety of her fleet surrounds the Red Wind watching. Arya and The Mountain are watching as well from the railing near the bow. Unsullied both injured and uninjured stand by in silence as Lady Kinvara is brought to her knees before Dany. Strong Belwas pulls his arakh from his side and lowers it over the back of Kinvara's neck. The sorceress doesn't say a word, her eyes never straying from Dany's.

"Do you know why you're here, High Priestess Kinvara?" Dany asks her calmly.

Kinvara smiles and nods. "Yes, Your Grace."

Daenerys lifts her brow and looks around at the rest of her people watching apprehensively. "This woman is the reason so many good men died in King's Landing. She's confessed everything. For this crime, there will be no trial, no chance for redemption, and no mercy. Kinvara, I sentence you to death."

"Such is the Lord of Light's will." Kinvara says quietly with confidence. "I will gladly die in service to the one true God."

"You may regret those words in a moment." Dany says, and to her immense surprise, she smiles for the first time since Drogon's death.

Suddenly _the Red Wind_ rocks unsteadily as if they'd struck an iceberg. A great, winged shadow blankets them for a moment before the boat rocks again. Deep, rumbling growls signal the arrival of Viserion and Rhaegal. The giant beige dragon appears first, his massive head poking up from behind Dany's cabin while the green dragon crawls across the deck of the ship. Both dragons come to a halt on their wings and legs behind Dany, their serpent-like eyes studying the Red Woman on her knees. Looking disappointed, Strong Belwas backs away from her. Daenerys expects the Red Woman's eyes to light up with fear, but they remain calm and centered on Dany, as if the dragons aren't even real. _Why is she not afraid?_ Dany narrows her eyes in mild annoyance and lifts her hand…

Kinvara turns her face upward, looking into the sky where the sun floats over a stream of clouds, watching as a flock of white ravens fly by and a light drizzle of snow begins to fall. As Dany's hand swings down, Kinvara parts her lips and whispers, " _The Night is Dark and full of Terrors_."

Viserion pounces first, rocking _the Red Wind_ as he curls his long neck around Dany and picks Kinvara up in his jaw with a single, swift bite. Dangling by her left arm, Kinvara screams in agony, no longer calm and centered. Rhaegal moves in right after his brother and catches Kinvara's right leg between his long, sharp teeth—tearing it off like a piece of raw chicken, spilling the sorceress's blood across the deck. Kinvara howls, panic setting in, as the dragons wrestle her back and forth—her death is music to Dany's ears. She put on the brave face until the very end.

There's nothing left of Kinvara but tattered pieces of her red dress amidst puddles of blood. When they're done, both dragons scream at each other before turning their eyes on Dany, who nods to them with a soft smile, before they take off in flight.

"This is what happens to those who cross me." Daenerys announces as she turns around to head back inside. _If I look back, I am lost. The time for mourning is over. For Drogon, for Jorah, and all who died for my cause—I promise you, I will take what is mine._

Once inside, Dany sits on her bed and Tyrion pours her a drink, carefully handing it her.

"Don't give me that look." Dany mutters to him, receiving the goblet of wine.

"What look? _This_ look? Don't mind me, Your Grace." Tyrion grins awkwardly, pouring himself a cup and swallowing the whole thing down quickly. "That was quite a performance out there. Did you really need your entire fleet to see that?"

"Yes." Dany mutters, "I wanted the world to know what I'm capable of."

"They most likely do already." Tyrion points out, "They think you're responsible for King's Landing."

"Rumors and lies are of no concern to me. I know the truth of what happened, and now so do my men."

"All the men know is that their Queen is willing to feed her enemies to her dragons. Beyond that, the nature of Kinvara's crime is likely to go over most of their heads…"

"Did you believe her?" Dany asks.

"About what?"

"The Lord of Light. Do you believe there really is a God out there responsible for killing Drogon and burning King's Landing?"

Tyrion pours himself another full goblet of the wine he'd found in the kitchens and lifts it to his lips, deep in thought. Finally, he says, "I don't believe in Gods, to be honest with you. _The Seven, The Lord of Light, The Old Gods_ —all of them always struck me as utter nonsense. That being said… I've never met someone willing to die like that for their Gods…"

"She was insane." Dany says bluntly, dismissing it as she leans back on her bed, swirling the wine in her cup around with one hand. "Enough. I want to forget about her. How much longer until we arrive on Dragonstone?"

"We should be there tomorrow." Tyrion says, finishing his wine and pouring another—but Dany reaches out and stops him. "Not this again—you know, it took me hours to find this. Let me indulge."

"You can after you've indulged me."

She watches as Tyrion's cheeks turn a bright shade of red, more visible than ever now that he'd shaved off his beard. "Err— _indulge_ you, Your Grace?"

"Yes." Dany smiles, "Tell me everything you know about Dragonstone—how many people are there, who rules it, its landscape, it's layouts—then you can drink."

"Oh. I thought you meant— _yes, of course,_ _erm_ …" Tyrion sets his goblet aside, scratching the back of his head and grinning awkwardly around the room. "Let's see, Dragonstone. Well, I've only been there once as a child, so I can't say much of the layout. Stannis was the last Lord in power before he left the island. According the Varys, Stannis is dead and the island has no ruler—only Smallfolk maintaining it. They may not be too pleased about our arrival…"

"They won't have a choice. They can either accept my rule or leave." Dany says, "There's no army there waiting to defend it?"

"None. Not unless Cersei left a Lannister garrison there but I find that unlikely." Tyrion glances at his goblet, longing for another taste. "The castle itself is quite enormous, built by your ancestors when Aegon first landed in Westeros."

"We could have come here first before attacking King's Landing." Dany mutters.

"True. But then we'd have lost our element of surprise over Cersei. She'd hear of your arrival and likely would've been even more prepared for us."

"She was already prepared with wildfire either way." Dany mutters, "Don't pretend like it was wiser to attack instead of wait. I've learned my lesson from this, Tyrion. You don't have to patronize me."

"I wasn't patronizing you, Daenerys. I stand by the decision to attack. Our losses could be far worse if we hadn't… Cersei might still be alive."

"So would Drogon." Dany bites back, and Tyrion glares at her. _I shouldn't be cruel to him. He's helped me this far._ "I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help."

"No apologies necessary." Tyrion sneakily reaches over for his goblet as he says this and she allows it. "Look, Dany. If we're going to try again—try and _break the wheel_ , as you put it, we need a plan. Westeros isn't going to accept you as their Queen when they think you burned King's Landing and half of your own army. Feeding Kinvara to your dragons might've felt good, but politically it was about as dumb as you can get. Luckily our former allies had already left before they could witness it, or no doubt their hatred for you would grow."

Dany frowns and takes a drink, the weight in her head lightening. _Why should I care what those deserters and cravens think?_ is what she wants to say, but Dany holds her tongue.

"We need allies, now more than ever—and we need a throne. Without those two things, we have nothing." Tyrion sighs, sitting down in a chair beside her bed.

"Do you have any ideas?" Dany asks.

"Yes. You might not like it." Tyrion glares down into his wine. "You need to get married. It's the safest, easiest way to make a strong, long-lasting alliance—and the rest of Westeros respects the laws of marriage. If you were to marry someone in power of one of the seven kingdoms, you'd be recognized as Queen in time."

 _I fully expected to have to marry._ "Who are my options?"

"I've spoken with Varys on it, and at the moment it there are no bachelors in power. Dorne and Highgarden have women in power and no sons to marry off. The Riverlands are in shambles. The North is being run by Sansa Stark, my ex-wife. According to Varys, Jon Snow was King of the North but he was cast aside by his sister for not being a Stark. At first I thought that was odd; the Sansa I know never would've done something so cruel—but then Varys told me the rest of what happened—and I've been debating with myself whether or not to share this information with you..."

Dany frowns. "Speak. I wish to know."

"Well, according to Varys's spies in the North, Jon Snow has Targaryen blood. It makes sense why they would cast him down after hearing that. Even if it's untrue, Northmen can't unbelieve something—and if it is true, then knowing Jon, he confessed to it."

"Are you telling me there's another Targaryen?" Daenerys asks.

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know." Tyrion shrugs, "We won't know until we ask him."

"And how will we ask him? Where is he?"

"Varys has spies tracking his movements. He's just reached the Twins—a bridge that divides the North from the rest of Westeros in the south. From Dragonstone that's about a two-week ride."

"Why is this Jon there and not in the North? Surely being a Targaryen isn't punishable by exile?"

"It is when the North has a long history of despising your family. Don't worry, they despise mine as well. Which is why earning their trust is out of the question for the time being."

"Then what's the point of telling me all this?"

"Because Jon Snow is the one you must marry." Tyrion says, swallowing his goblet with a sick expression on his face. "Whether or not he has your blood doesn't matter—Targaryens have married into their own family for centuries. What matters is that he has an army of his own, and he knows the North better than anyone. He's coming to see you, Dany, and if he knows his true heritage than he might be trying to take the throne for himself."

"How could he be related to me? How is that even possible?"

"Again, I don't know. There's many questions I have for Jon. He'll find out eventually that we're not at King's Landing, and that there is no throne to take. He'll likely have heard the nasty rumors spreading as well, which means we need to prepare a defense. Jon can't think we're his enemy."

Dany can't absorb all of this quickly enough, it's too much. _I'm the last Targaryen. How could there be another one already here? It doesn't make sense._ "Why do we need him? He sounds like a fool for giving up his power so easily."

Tyrion laughs and shakes his head. "If he's a fool and all these rumors about him are false then there's no reason to marry him. But if you marry him, you not only set in motion the return of the Targaryen dynasty, but you'll have allies again. In time, I'm sure once I've spoken with Sansa, we can arrange peace with the North and the rest of the countries. It won't be overnight, but it's a start."

"That still leaves me without a throne." Dany says, trying to picture what this Jon Snow looks like, imagining an older version of Viserys.

"I have a solution for that problem as well." Tyrion smiles, "With King's Landing destroyed… the Iron Throne lost… there's no King or Queen in power, no government ruling the people—chaos could be spreading and no one would even know about it. What Westeros needs is a new capital, a new throne, and a new Queen to sit it. I propose we make Dragonstone that capital. There's stone there only found on the island called Obsidian. Have the laborers build a new throne, _The Obsidian Throne_ , we'll call it. Obsidian is said to be melted rock from dragon fire, so it suits you perfectly. Once built, Westeros will have no choice but to accept you as their Queen, and whoever you marry, as their King."


	21. Jon III

Jon

Jon wakes up to the sound of howling. Convinced that Ghost has returned from the dead, Jon bolts out of his bed and stands in the moonlight dripping through his window, completely nude and layered in sweat, listening to the howling continue from somewhere down below. _That's no wolf—that's a person screaming, but why?_ Snatching his small-clothes off from the chair beside the bed, Jon dresses himself swiftly, growing more and more disconcerted by the screams. _It sounds like someone—a woman maybe—is being tortured. I have to hurry._ He makes sure to take Longclaw with him.

The castle of House Mallister is still foreign for Jon, but he remembers the way downstairs and walks as fast as he can toward the screams. The closer he gets, the louder and clearer the screams become. _It's definitely a woman—it sounds like an elderly woman, though… What the hell is going on?_

Bursting through the doors to Jason Mallister's dining hall, Jon finds himself amidst a group of people—all of them standing in a circle around Lord Mallister himself as well as the old woman Jon remembers passing by when they'd first arrived. Thirty heads spin to look at the newcomer in their midst, and Jon freezes with surprise. "What's going on here?"

Lord Mallister turns his eyes on Jon, leaning over the old woman on her knees with a hand on her shoulder. He appears tired, and if the old woman wasn't screaming in his ear, he might've heard Jon's question. Jon gets closer, and finally takes in the old woman's appearance.

Her face is more of a toad's than a human's—eyes spread wider apart than natural, with a short, pug nose and white, fragile strands of hair. Her jaw is stretched apart and an endless, horrified scream floods out, making Jon wince just to be near her. The others are all staring sadly at her, though some appear nervous. Lord Mallister stands and beckons Jon to follow him. He does so, and they go to a corner of the room so that they can hear each-other speak.

"Forgive her, she does this from time to time." says Jason Mallister with a prudish frown.

"What's wrong with her?" Jon asks.

"We don't know. We found her in High Heart a year back. She was the only survivor from a battle that took place there. Still don't know her real name. The men say she's a witch— _the Ghost of High Heart_. Whenever she does this, the men like to watch and see if she'll deliver another premonition."

 _Ghost of High Heart… Why does that sound familiar?_ Jon can't help but wince as the old woman shrieks up at the bannisters. She hurls herself forward and a storm of coughs interrupt her, causing everyone to fall into anticipatory silence. The doors groan and Davos enters wearing his sleeping-clothes, his eyes wide with confusion as he takes in the room. Thoros of Myr is right behind him, half-naked, wielding an axe. The Red Priest's cheeks give up that he's still drunk from the night before, and the way he swaggers around as he enters the room confirms it. When Davos finds Jon, he calls, "What's going on? We heard a commotion and feared the worst."

Before Jon can answer, the old woman rounds her eyes on Jon—and suddenly Jon sees nothing, nothing but endless darkness. A moment of sheer panic nearly suffocates him—but then he blinks, and everything returns to normal.

"Jon?" Davos repeats his name, standing much closer to him than he was a second ago. Jon backs up, his face covered in sweat, gawking at the old woman who was now watching him in reserved silence. She lifts a bony finger up and points at him.

"She wants to speak with you." Lord Mallister mutters, and he barks at the men to get out. They do, until it is only Jon, Davos, Thoros, Lord Mallister, and the Ghost of High Heart in the hall. "We can leave as well, if she wishes?" The Lord asks the old woman, but she doesn't respond. She might as well be a statue now, perched on her knees between the tables like she'd taken a spill and couldn't get up.

Jon decides to approach her but with caution. When he kneels down in front of her, the Ghost remains frozen, her eyes lingering on the floor—lost in thought. "Do you know who I am?" Jon asks her quietly while Davos and Thoros gingerly approach them.

Nothing. The old woman doesn't even breathe. Jon glances nervously around at his comrades before going on. "My name is Jon Snow."

The old woman's lips part to crack a small smile. "Jon Snow." She repeats in a croak, "No. Not Snow…" She lifts the finger she used to point at him and strokes Jon's cheek with it, her nail as dull as a training sword. "You are the blood of the Dragon."

"I guess that confirms it then." Lord Mallister grunts with a grin, crossing his arms over his mailed chest. Davos just scowls while Thoros tilts his head back and chuckles. Jon ignores them, feeling a strange sensation in his chest. The old woman narrows her aged eyes at him and coughs again, spilling saliva down her chin and onto the clean floor.

"How do you know?" Jon asks her when she's finished.

"Jenny… my poor Jenny…" mumbles the Old Ghost.

"She says that often, it means she's lost her clarity." Lord Mallister sighs with disappointment, "I thought for a moment we might see something interesting."

"No. When she looked at me, I—I saw something." Jon insists, taking the old woman by her hand and clutching it tightly with both of his. She looks at him with bewildered eyes, searching his face. "Tell me how you know who I am. Tell me."

"Jon…" Davos mutters.

"She knows me. She knows something about me—I can feel it." Jon argues, blinking furiously at her now, "Tell me how you know, woman. _How do you know who I am?_ Please, I need to know."

"Jenny…" The old woman mutters feebly, "My poor Jenny…"

" _Whose Jenny_?" Jon asks angrily, letting go of her leathery hands.

Lord Mallister answers, "We think Jenny was someone related to her a long time ago. Jenny's dead, that's all we know for certain. Nobody around here knows which Jenny she could be referring to. Might be the Jenny that married a Targaryen before they all died out."

"Targaryens." The Old Ghost grumbles, spitting more yellow phlegm across the floor. "Targaryens… ride dragons… Fire and blood…"

"My true name is Jon Targaryen." Jon says to her then, unable to give up. "Did you know my real father?"

"Targaryen... _Father?_ " She blinks at him, and he can tell something is working in her brain—something is connecting… _"The Prince that was Promised... Born of Ice and Fire, a savior will rise and fall three times to bring balance to the world. Three Heads of the Dragon must deliver the Light to the Darkness. The past is written and the ink is dry, but the future is an endless storm."_ Jon's head is spinning from everything she's saying—but she doesn't stop there, _"With red hair, she will receive Winter's Kiss, and the God of Death will know love once again—and his love will be the ruin of mankind. Only the Prince that was Promised can save the world from darkness, with a sword of fire… and a heart of ice."_

An hour later, and Jon is sitting with Davos in Davos's room drinking a mug of hot tea to calm his nerves. Davos sits across from him with his fingers crossed on the table, glaring at his mutilated finger-tips in reflection on the evening's events. Jon drinks his tea, feeling strangely upset. Davos clears his throat finally and says, "Would you like to know what I think of all this?"

Jon nods somberly and sets his mug down.

"I think it's all shit. Fuck this Lord of Light. Fuck this God of Death. Fuck the magic that brought you back to life. Fuck it all, Jon."

"You don't believe in magic now?" Jon asks him.

"On the contrary, I believe in it with all my bloody heart. Didn't used to, but I've seen too much. Just because I know it's real, doesn't mean I want anything to do with it. I've seen what happens to men—they grow corrupt over it, they think they can—can _harness_ it like it's their weapon. Stannis burned his own daughter alive because he believed the Lord of Light told him to."

"And now you're worried because of what the Lord of Light told me to do?" Jon asks, though he knows already what Davos will say.

"Yes. I'm sorry, but I am worried. I saw you walk through fire—and I can't say I know how or why that's possible, only that it is. Just because you can do that, and just because you came back to life twice—doesn't mean you should start listening to voices in the flames." Davos casts him a hard glare, and Jon can't help but agree. _But…_

"What if I am the Prince that was Promised, Davos?"

"I don't believe in the ramblings of old women. Prophecies are lies."

"But what if this one isn't? You know the reason I know I'm a Targaryen is because my little brother had a vision and I believed him."

"And if I'd have been there, I'd have advised against believing him." Davos argues. "Turns out he is probably right. The longer this goes on, the more inclined I am to believe you truly are the blood of a dragon…"

"The Old Ghost's prophecy said the Prince was born of Ice and Fire. If Fire is Targaryens, then Ice must be Starks. My mother was Lyanna, my father Rhaegar. Asking her about my father somehow made her remember the prophecy, I think…"

Davos groans, "I beg of you, Jon. Please don't read into this…"

"I can't help it, Davos. You don't understand what it's like, being alive when you're not supposed to be. When she looked into my eyes—for a second, all I saw was absolute darkness. It was the same thing I saw when I died—and it was just as fast as both times—almost like I'd died and come back again just by looking at her. She's not some old hag, she's just as real as the Red Woman."

"Except the Red Woman had the Lord of Light. This Old Ghost doesn't believe in any Gods that we know of." Davos grunts, "I think this is a bad idea… I'm sorry, but I can't participate in a conversation about magic and prophecies."

"Then I'll speak to Thoros about it." Jon snaps, standing up, leaving his tea half-empty. Davos suddenly looks like he realizes he's made a mistake and jumps up after him.

"W-Wait, don't go, My Lord. Not to that man! He'll fill your head with—"

"I'm not a child, Davos. I'm not Stannis, either. Goodnight." Jon says, and he closes the bedroom door behind him.


	22. Brienne II

Brienne

It takes three hours to carry the dead bodies of the Crannogmen out through the gates of Winterfell, down a snowy hill, and into an embankment near a frozen river. Back and forth Brienne went with Podrick beside her, limping all the way. About thirty Stark soldiers were helping them. Now that they were on the last, Brienne was one of the few remaining workers. Pod was having trouble keeping up, so Brienne told him he could wait for her in Winterfell if he'd like. "No. I'm your Squire. I can help."

Brienne doesn't have the heart to tell him no. She gives him her horse to ride so that he doesn't end up falling over. The mare whinnies as it drags a cart full of dead green-skinned men in loincloth down the white road. Under cover of the Long Night, traveling even such a short distance was trouble on the eyes. Every time they returned to the bank near the river, Brienne has to squint just to see where they were tossing the dead. Sure enough, they'd find it again; the heaping pile slowly disappearing under the blizzard. Brienne comes to a stop and so does Pod and his horse. He's about to dismount when Brienne halts him and says she'll handle the bodies, he can rest.

"If you insist." Pod pants, sounding relieved. "Just glad I'm working with you again."

"I am too." Brienne smiles, bending over to pull the first body out of the cart and drag him through the snow. "You know, I won't lie, it felt good to get some payback against these arseholes."

"Were any of them the same ones who kept you captive?" asks Pod.

"I can't tell. Their faces all look alike under dirt and mud and all that hair. None of them spoke to me, either. They just pushed me, yelled at me, and made me fight Lizard-lions."

"Did you really fight _real_ lizard-lions?" Pod gasps.

"Aye. They were breeding them, I think." Brienne grunts as she tosses the corpse feet-first down the ravine where it rolls into the rest. "Weren't so tough once I figured out how to get around them and break their jaws with my hands."

"Bloody hell…" whispers Pod.

"I know, I know," Brienne grins as she returns to the corpse cart for another, "It wasn't pretty. You'd have shat yourself if you saw them."

"B-Brienne…"

"Still, have to hand it to the poor beasts, they were tougher than I—"

" _Brienne_!"

Brienne stops in her tracks, supporting a dead Crannogmen by his armpits, and looks over her shoulder at Pod. He's still mounted on the horse, but he's looking straight past her, pointing his finger at something down the hill. Brienne looks around, and what she sees next gives her a start.

One of the bodies down below in the pile is stirring, still alive. The corpse in her hands collapses in the snow as Brienne takes off down the hill. " _Pod, it's a survivor_!"

"What are you—?"

"I'll put him out of his misery, calm down." Brienne mutters, sliding to the bottom. She lands amidst the bodies, and begins to climb them toward the stirring corpse, yanking out her dagger as she does. Whoever the man is, she can't see his face—he has his back facing her, hunched over the other corpses, making wet smacking sounds with his lips as though he was eating. Brienne frowns as she climbs closer to him, standing up-right with her dagger in the air. She slowly reaches down and grasps the Crannogman's shoulder…

Blue eyes round on Brienne's, locking with her face, and an insane grin reveals missing teeth and a piece of intestine hanging from his jaw. His hands are buried inside the corpse beneath him, digging a cavity around in his guts. Brienne is frozen in place, dagger forgotten. The man's blue eyes never blink as he pulls his claws out from the corpse and lift them up to grab Brienne by her armored ankles. He releases a guttural shriek that sounds like rocks smashing together before lunging up to try and swipe at her face. Brienne's instincts kick in, driving her foot up into the man's chin. The result sends the blue-eyed Crannogmen flying backward onto the corpses… and to her horror, more of them are moving now, their arms and legs bending as they grunt and moan. Brienne backs up down the hill, trying not to trip over limbs—and a hand reaches up to snag her ankle, trapping her there. Brienne roars, bending down and stabbing the bony talon between its index finger and thumb. The dagger catches in the flesh, and Brienne has to abandon it in order to flee. The blue-eyed man she'd kicked was coming after her again, and this time he isn't alone. At least six others have risen up, their eyes just as blue and bright as the first.

"Brienne, _get out of there_!" Pod screams down at her, but then his horse whinnies and rears back on his hind legs, making Pod shriek and nearly tumble off—yet he manages to keep hold of the reigns. Brienne digs her fingers through the snow, climbing on her hands and feet to reach Pod again, her heart hammering painfully against her chest. She doesn't have time to think, she doesn't have time to wonder what was going on—by the time she reaches the top, Brienne sees that the rest of the corpses inside the cart are getting up now, scaring Pod's horse—and the body she'd let go of earlier is getting up as well. Before it can, Brienne stomps her foot down over its skull and crushes it open—spraying blood and brain matter up her leg.

Releasing her steel sword, Brienne hurries to the corpse cart while Pod struggles to keep from falling off his panicking steed. With two furious hacks of her weapon, Brienne breaks the cart's ropes, freeing the horse. The corpses within are growling an unnatural sound, as are the corpses behind her. _I can't fight them all_. Brienne reaches up and climbs aboard her mount, Pod gripping her waist for dear-life. _"Hang on!"_ She yells, spurring the horse to run.

They fly through the white-washed forest around them, up a sloping hill for Winterfell. Brienne looks back over her shoulder and sees them chasing after her. It's this moment that Brienne's mind finally catches up with her body, and she can ask herself what the fuck it was she just experienced. _How can they all be alive again? This doesn't make sense! They're acting like… like…_

"Brienne!" Podrick shrieks, pointing ahead.

Brienne yanks on the reigns and ducks as a low-hanging branch almost swipes her face. Pod ducks as well, and they keep riding forward.

"We have to warn Lady Sansa!" Brienne yells over the howling wind. Pod doesn't reply. He's looking to his right as they pass by a dead horse. Two men are hunched over it, digging out chunks of its muscles and stuffing their faces with it as though they were starving. When Brienne rides by, their bright blue eyes lift up and watch them pass. _Those were the other corpse-carriers helping us before…_

The horse carries them out of the forest and into the long, snowy hillside. In the distance is Winterfell, it's gates still wide open with men going in and out. A long crowd of Crannogmen being forced out of the castle was lumbering slowly, carrying children attached to their bosoms. Brienne had been against kicking them all out, but Sansa wouldn't hear a word of it. Ever since the skirmish earlier, she'd locked herself away in her parent's tower. _All these people, they're all walking to their deaths! I have to warn them!_

Brienne leads her horse toward the head of the Crannogmen, their dour, green faces all turning up to stare at her approach with suspicion and fear. "Get inside!" Brienne roars at them, lifting her sword up in the air as her horse slows to a trot. "There's monsters coming from the woods! We must prepare for battle! Your lives are in danger!"

None of them listen to her. Some of the women linger their gaze, but they don't stop… _They have to leave. They don't trust me…_ "Get inside this bloody instant or I'll start cutting you all down myself!"

"Lady Brienne, what is the meaning of this?!" Calls one of the Stark guards from atop the wall. "These people are under orders to leave Winterfell and never return."

"I'm aware of that, but we have more pressing concerns at hand!" Brienne shouts back. "All of you inside, NOW!"

As she yells, the winds pick up, and every word creates a cloud of mist in front of her eyes… _It's getting colder._ The blizzard was picking up as well, blowing snow in every direction. A slithering feeling in her heart compels Brienne to turn around.

Near the forest's edge is a man in black armor wearing a long, blue-bladed scythe on his back. His head is bald, save for a row of horns, and his eyes are gaunt and wrinkled with centuries of age, his bright blue eyes piercing Brienne's from across the field… From behind him appear his army of the Dead; hundreds, then thousands, emerging from the shadows. _He's here… The one Jon Snow spoke of—it's the Night's King._

The Crannogmen catch on and notice the army ahead, and they begin to panic and flee back through the gates. The guards atop the wall don't notice the Night King or his army yet, too bothered by the Crannogmen. Brienne rides her horse ahead of them and fly through the gates, joining the crowded, loud courtyard where the rest of Sansa's small forces come rushing out to handle the Crannogmen, some drawing their swords thinking they had another battle at hand. _They do, but not the Crannogmen._ "Everyone get on the walls! Prepare to defend Winterfell!" Brienne screams, her throat bursting with pain. _It's no use, nobody's listening to me!_

"Brienne, the gates!" Pod yells, "If we don't close them, the Dead will get through!"

Brienne dismounts her horse and tells Pod to stay with him, then hurries up the stairs to the parapets looking out over the sides of Winterfell's fifty-foot tall walls. In the short amount of time it took for her to get here, the army of the Dead had grown from thousands—to tens of thousands. Brienne's heart stops momentarily when she takes in the sight of them all. She looks to her east, and there they are emerging from the woods. To her west, there they are, strutting through the snow with axes and swords. All of them have blue eyes glowing under the Long Night's shadow, yet none of them make a sound. The Night King is walking through the snow while his army remains where they are. He lifts his scythe and points it at Winterfell, and when his lips part, a terrible, unearthly shriek comes out.

Every single wight begins to sprint head-long for Winterfell, surrounding the castle on all sides. Some of the soldiers atop the wall start to notice what's happening. "Close the gates!" One man yells, nearly shitting himself. Another one actually shits himself, and falls over onto his hands and knees, trembling. _It's happening. It's happening._ Brienne rushes back down the stairs to join the men trying to keep the rest of the Crannogmen out. _If we don't close the gates, they'll make it through. I'm sorry…_ Brienne slams her hands into the gates and begins to push, her weight is just what's needed. The rest of the Crannogmen outside scream for help, beg for mercy—but Brienne can't allow herself to hear them or she'd go mad. When she and the rest of the soldiers finally shove the gates closed, Brienne bars them with a giant log of wood and rounds on the Captain of the guard. "We have a war on our hands! Defend the castle!"

"What—what are they?" The Captain asks her.

Brienne shoves past him, looking for Pod. She finds him still up on their horse in the center of the courtyard, watching as the soldiers rush to defend the walls. "Brienne, what do we do?"

"We have to get Lady Sansa." Brienne says, "She's at the top of her tower. I'll go, you stay here and help defend for as long as you can."

"Wh-What? No! I'm not leaving you!"

"Pod! You'll slow me down going up all those steps!" Brienne yells at him, sounding harsher than she cares for. "Just stay here and keep the horse ready! We're not going to be able to defend Winterfell for long. We're… we're going to have to escape."

"Escape? You mean leave Winterfell behind? Will Sansa even allow that?"

"She has to." Brienne scowls, but as she turns to go inside the Grey Hall, Pod calls to her again.

"What about Ser Jaime?"

Brienne comes to a halt with her fingers on the handle to the doors… _Ser Jaime?_ She looks back over her shoulder at her Squire, and his fear reflects her own. "We don't have time to rescue them both." Brienne mutters.

"We're going to just _leave him_?" Pod asks, "I-I don't know, this is all happening too quickly."

"Jaime is in the dungeons. He deserves to be there…" Brienne growls, her hand twisting on the handle, but still not opening the doors. A terrifying revelation occurs to her. _Jaime._ _If I rescue Sansa I won't have time to get you, but if I saved you—I definitely won't have time to rescue Sansa… I… I… I don't know what to do! How the hell am I in this mess?! Jaime, you lied to me, and you did it so you could try and kill Sansa… I… I have to save Sansa. I'm sorry, Jaime. I'm so sorry…_

As the door opens, Brienne remembers a time when she was trapped in a pit with a bear, and how only one man in the entire world came to her rescue when he didn't have to, when he had no reason to…


	23. Jaime III

Jaime

A storm of stampeding footsteps tells him that something is going on overhead, something bad. The dust along the ceiling scatters, and Jaime hears men shouting muffled shouts. _Is Winterfell under attack or something? Impossible… There's no way my sister would send her army up here after me, would she? That'd be suicide for her._

"Wh-what's going on?" sniffs Howland Reed from his cage down the dimly lit corridor, his hands around the bars as he presses his forehead against them, trying to peer down a ways to see the exit. "M-Maybe my people are-are trying to save me again?"

"I wouldn't get your hopes up." Jaime mutters. The Crannogmen had tried earlier to come rushing down here, and the Gaoler had been ready for them. Jaime had never seen a man so fat move so quickly, clubbing down every Crannogmen that came into the dungeons with a single blow. When the Gaoler had been finished, he simply walked over the bodies and returned to his office, leaving the corpses lying there for Howland to see until someone came along to drag them away. _If anymore Crannogmen showed up down here, they'd have to face the Gaoler's wrath._

The door to the exit bursts apart with a shower of fire and rock as if a trebuchet had launched a boulder through it. Jaime is truly shocked, and presses his face against the bars of his cage for a better look—

Someone skinny is climbing through the rubble and smoke making strange crackling sounds under its breath. When it appears, Jaime's mind goes instantly catatonic, unable to process a single, tangible thought. The man has long, braided hair and wears old, patchy Wildling clothes. His beard is matted and frost-layered, blood dribbling down from his lips. His bright, blue eyes scan the dungeons before landing on Jaime's cell. It points its sword at him—and suddenly three more join it, climbing hastily over the rubble. They sprint down the corridor for him, and Jaime flees to the back of his cage in terror.

"What's going on?" asks Howland as the blue-eyed creatures slam into Jaime's cage and reach their skeletal arms through the bars—groping the air for him and swinging their weapons. Jaime has some breathing room, luckily, but not much. Trapped against the wall, Jaime can only stand there and gape at the monsters grunting and screeching at him.

Jaime peruses his cell for anything he can use to fight them off in case they get through, but there's nothing but a chamber pot full of piss… _Fuck it._ He picks it up and throws his own piss at them. Warm, yellow liquid splashes their faces—and to his amazement it works! They back away, spluttering and wiping their eyes off with their hands in bewilderment. Then they all look at each other and laugh. Rocks grinding together is what it sounds like, and Jaime winces with annoyance. _Great. They're mocking me now. What the fuck are these things?_

One of them lifts an axe and begins to hammer at the cage's lock while the others pull and gnaw on the bars. Jaime collapses against the wall in his straw bed, an unwilling grin stretching his face apart. He starts to laugh uncontrollably, clutching his sides, tears leaking down his cheeks. _This is mad. I'm going to die. I'm really going to die down here._

One of the creatures takes notice of Howland Reed and turns its attention on him instead. The old man inside screams and backs up into his corner, screaming "It's them, they're here!" Suddenly, Jaime hears stomping footsteps coming from down the hall, and the blue-eyed devils stop hacking at the cages to look at the newcomer.

It's the Gaoler. He has his giant club resting across his shoulders, and a shit-eating grin on his face. Without words, the fat man charges down the dungeons for them. The four invaders roar and run at him as well. Jaime slowly stands up to go and see what happens, and by the time he gets to his cage, it's already over. The Gaoler is on his knees, his club rolling down the floor, with an axe between his eyes. The wights laugh again and hack at the Gaoler's head, chest, and shoulders until he resembles nothing more than raw meat. _Fuck…_

"Pod, stay here with the horse." Comes a familiar voice from beyond the rubble where the monsters had blown there way inside. They hear it just as Jaime does, and slowly rise from the Gaoler's corpse with axes and swords in hand.

" _BRIENNE! THEY'RE DOWN HERE_!" Jaime bellows desperately, his voice hoarse from the excitement. One of them turns around and glares at Jaime, uttering a low screech. The other three pound the stone for the rubble, weapons lifted high in the air—

Brienne comes in and she's covered in blood, her armor dented along the breast from some blow she'd taken. A long, red gash bleeds down her forehead, blinding her in one eye. She takes one look at the monsters coming for her and roars like a lion at them, lifting her leg up and planting a firm kick in the first one's chest. It grunts and flies into its companions, tumbling all four of them over in a pile. Brienne takes a torch off the wall from its sconce and throws it at them, scattering embers of fire over all four of their bodies. They scream and roll around as their clothing catches fire, but one of them manages to get back up, his head a flaming ruin, and lunges for Brienne again—

Jaime closes his eyes, unable to watch his friend go down this way… All he hears is a sick _crunch_ … and when he opens his eyes, Brienne is still there, running up to his cage, her eyes wide and her face glistening with sweat and blood. "Brienne…" is all Jaime can say under his breath as she lifts her sword up and crushes the lock to his cage with a single blow. It pops off and the door swings open.

Brienne reaches out for him to take her hand and says, "We need to go."

"Don't need to tell me twice." Jaime grunts. _Thank the Gods I got dressed or I'd have to do this naked._ Jaime follows her out into the corridor and sees the burning bodies still struggling to get up.

"DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!" moans Howland Reed from inside his cage, slamming his face against the bars. Brienne scowls at the old man and doesn't say a word. "Please! I beg of you! _I-I don't want to die down here_!"

"You should have thought of that before you committed your crimes, Lord Reed." Brienne growls, beginning to walk away toward the exit. Jaime follows her.

"PLEASE! BRIENNE OF TARTH! I-I RELEASED YOU WHEN I DIDN'T HAVE TO! CAN YOU REALLY LEAVE ME TO DIE LIKE THIS?!"

Brienne stops with her fists clenched and a vein pulsing in her forehead. She rounds on Howland Reed then, and not even Jaime could stop her if he tried. "You only released me after I did what you wanted—and it nearly cost me my honor as a woman! You're a liar, and you deserve whatever these creatures do to you!"

Howland might as well be a child again, sniveling and whimpering against the bars of his cell. "MERCY! NOT FOR ME, BUT FOR MY DAUGHTER! MEERA! SHE—SHE HAS NO IDEA! YOU HAVE TO LET ME EXPLAIN EVERYTHING TO HER! PLEASE! I BEG OF YOU, DO NOT MAKE MY DAUGHTER AN ORPHAN!"

With narrowed eyes, Brienne stands rooted to the spot. Jaime could tell she was considering his words now, and predicts what she does next with ease.

Together, Brienne, Jaime, and Howland Reed escape the dungeons. Jaime doesn't know what to expect when they reach the surface…

The courtyard of Winterfell is now the center stage to a massacre. Blood has dyed the snow red everywhere he looks, and bodies strewn amidst the white, make Jaime's legs go numb. Crazed men hacking at them repeatedly with axes and swords, screeching with glee. Men atop the walls are fighting as hordes of blue-eyed creatures climb over the parapets. A furious growling sound can be heard somewhere beyond the walls, and the earth is shaking. Suddenly a massive pair of fingers appear over the gates, followed by a giant's ugly head. Just like the rest of them, the giant has bright blue eyes. It kicks the gates apart with a single sweep of his feet—allowing a flood of wights to come pouring through. If not for the heavy snow-fall, Jaime might've gotten a better look at the giant—but in fear he follows Brienne and Howland over to where Podrick Payne sits mounted on a horse, watching the battle with his jaw in his lap.

"How are we going to get out of here?" Jaime asks them over the chaos.

Brienne answers him with, "The Wolfswood. There's a back gate that leads to the forest—we have to hurry…" She sounds numb when she says this, and unsure of herself. Jaime has never seen Brienne this way before, but with everything going on, he doesn't have the time to figure out what's wrong. Pod leads them on horseback while Brienne picks up a sword from a fallen Stark soldier and hands it to Jaime. Meanwhile Howland is whirling around watching the battle with horror.

"Wh-where's the Knights of the Vale? Where's my people? Where's the rest of the Northerners?!" Howland cries. Jaime can see why he'd ask. The Stark army was nothing but guards, it seems, and most of them are already dead or about to die—swarmed by the endless waves of undead climbing over the walls. The invaders at the gates notice their little party escaping, and about thirty wights come charging after them.

 _It's no use fighting them. We have to run._ The look on Brienne's face says she's thinking the same thing. So they run as fast as they can.

The Wolfswood is blessedly clear of any signs of the undead. Their pursuers can be heard crackling behind them. Jaime doesn't know where he's going, and prays that they don't get trapped—luckily there's the gate that Brienne spoke of. They flee past a steaming pool and bleeding weirwood tree. Brienne takes her sword and breaks the locks off the gate with a furious swing, kicking the doors apart, and beckoning them through. She's the last to exit just as the wights appear within sight.

They hurry down a sloping, snowy hill into the cover of the forest's darkness. Jaime collapses against a tree to catch his breath, freezing in his small-clothes and huddling his missing hand to his chest—for his stump is extra sensitive to the cold. Howland falls on his knees beside him, spraying snow everywhere. He's wearing just as little as Jaime is, and with his age, the cold must be sharper on his skin. Podrick trots the black horse to a stop, watching over their shoulder for signs of the Dead following, while Brienne goes to Howland… and Jaime notices that she's crying.

"Get up!" Brienne snaps at the old man, kicking him in the arm. "We have to keep moving."

"I-I need something to wear on my feet at least." moans Howland pathetically.

"He can ride with me." Pod mumbles, "But I can't carry Ser Jaime too. We need another horse."

"Aye. It's fine." Jaime mutters, "I can run. Let's just keep moving."

So they run, but so do the Dead chasing after their foot-prints in the snow…


	24. Sansa III

Sansa

 _You'll believe me, someday…_

Jon's last words whisper in her ear as Sansa Stark stands by her parent's bedroom window overlooking the battle for Winterfell. She's frozen where she stands, her body numb and cold, as the wind whips her crimson hair and chills her flesh. She lifts a trembling hand to her lips and bites her thumb, drawing blood… she doesn't even feel it. _You'll believe me, someday._

When the White Walkers arrived, Sansa had been trying to fall asleep and forget about the day's earlier events with the Crannogmen. Unable to sleep, Sansa stared up at her ceiling, lost in thought, until a scream outside her window ruptured her trance. Gliding to her window, Sansa expected to find more Crannogmen fighting back down in her courtyard. The yard was clear, however, and it was outside her gates where the commotion originated. One of her guards was yelling at someone on the other side of the gates, and the Crannogmen Sansa had ordered to leave were trying to get back in…

 _Where's Littlefinger? Why isn't he handling this?_ Sansa had asked herself, before remembering that Littlefinger and the rest of the Northern Lords must've already left by now. Sure enough, as she scans the battlements of her castle for signs of the Knights of the Vale, there's no hint of Littlefinger or the rest of her army. _They're gone. All I have left are the one hundred Stark guardsmen and a thousand Smallfolk who can't fight._

When the gates opened, Sansa sees Brienne of Tarth come riding in on her horse with her Squire. She's yelling at the top of her lungs, but Sansa can't hear what she's saying from all the way up here in her tower. The Captain of her guards is arguing with Brienne when one of the other guards points out over the walls at the forest in the north…

Sansa's eyes found them—hundreds of thousands of dark, lumbering shadows emerging from the tree-line. Their eyes shine bright blue, even from a distance, and their sights were set on Winterfell. Sansa's heart stopped when one of the dark figures walks out ahead of the others and derives a shriek that carries on the wind all the way up to Sansa's ears. His army of wights charge the walls—too many to count from here, it's a black flood of insects, and they have her castle surrounded.

 _You'll believe me, someday._ Sansa can't move. She can't breathe. She can't even blink. Her body has forgotten it's real. All that exists now is what she's witnessing… Her guards attempt to man the walls while Brienne heads for the Grey Hall. After a while, the wights aren't the only creatures to emerge—giants, real giants even larger than the one Jon had befriended, topple trees over with their shoulders as they shake the earth and crush the wights just for being in their way. Sansa counts three of them, each wearing little clothing so that their rotten hides are visible. Then come the wights riding spiders the size of hounds, bristling with snowy hairs—their long, eight legs scrambling up the sides of Winterfell's walls so their riders can leap onto the parapets with ease. The guards have never seen such monsters before, and were certainly not prepared for this. Some men fight bravely, and go down within seconds, overwhelmed by the sheer number of wights climbing over stone. Some wights make it inside the courtyard, and Sansa sees Brienne fighting them off as best she can… _Brienne will come for me… She'll save me. I know she will._

Four wights break off and head for the dungeons… and to Sansa's shock, Brienne follows them in… _Why is she going down there for?_

A few minutes later, and Brienne emerged again… with Jaime and Howland Reed in tow. Podrick, who was circling the yard on his horse watching the battle, sees them come out and Sansa watches them take heed of the giant kicking down the gates, allowing thousands of wights to come pouring through… Brienne leads the others out of the courtyard, into the Godswood… Sansa's breath falls short, unable to comprehend what was happening. _Brienne, where are you going? I'm up here…_

 _You'll believe me, someday_.

The dying screams of her men below slowly fade away until all of Winterfell is silent. The courtyard is packed with wights running around hacking at bodies; some are eating the dead while others invade the stables, the blacksmith's workshop, and the Grey Hall itself. The giants roar with triumph before setting their blue eyes up on her tower. When they do, the rest of the wights all freeze and look up at her as well… Suddenly every pair of blue eyes is on Sansa…

 _Why aren't they coming for me? Why are they all just standing there?_ Sansa asks herself, though the question comes and goes with the rest of her empty thoughts, followed by " _You'll believe me, someday._ "

Their leader walks through the destroyed gates with a casual stroll, examining the dead bodies with a small smile. The Night King lifts his hand up into the air and wordlessly strides up to the castle. By the time he reaches the doors to the Grey Hall, every dead Stark guard rises to their feet, eyes blue…

Sansa backs away from her window feeling sick to her stomach. She flees to her chamber pot and hurls vomit into it. She stays like this, on her knees, throwing up into a pot until there's nothing left in her belly to dispense. Her red hair hangs in strings around her sweating face, and her tears flow in silent rivers down her slender cheeks. _What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?_

She wishes more than anything that Jon was here. She wants to cling to him and beg for forgiveness, to have him lift her off her feet and carry her far away from here…

It's impossible for Sansa to know how long she sat there on her knees. When she finally does get up, her legs are dead and her feet cold. She sniffs and heads for the window again, needing to see for herself if all of them were still there—if what just happened was real, or if she's just going mad.

 _They're still there. Why are they all just… standing there looking up at my tower? Why haven't they come for me yet?_

 _Knock… Knock... Knock…_

Sansa hears the knock at her door but can't believe it's real. She stares at the door for a while as if it had uttered some insult at her… then decides there's nothing for her to do but answer it. "B-Brienne? Is that you?" Sansa asks nervously, shaking as she reaches for the handle and opens her door…

She's not expecting to find her uncle, Benjen, standing before her. Sansa recognizes him immediately, even after not seeing him for years. A gasp escapes her throat, backing away from him, until she collapses on her bed. Benjen doesn't move, he just stands there in her doorway staring at her behind bright blue eyes. His hands are gone—replaced with blackened, bruised stumps. There's an old, gaping lesion in his gut as well, but the blood congealed around it is black and hard, layered with frost. His dead-set gaze doesn't blink, nor does his expression bear any recognition for his niece. Benjen lifts one of his stumps and points it at her, then turns around and starts to lumber away with heavy footfalls…

When he's gone, Sansa slowly rises from her bed, debating whether or not to follow him—or slam her door shut and live the rest of her life in this bedroom. _I have to go. He didn't kill me… I have to know why, at least. I'll die up here eventually anyway… This was my fault. This was all my fault… I have to face the consequences. Father, Mother, please forgive me._

Sansa goes to her mirror and dresses herself for the last time in her wolf's pelt and Stark garb. A silver direwolf's head rests across her bosom, and when she's finished, Sansa combs her long, red hair until it flows beautifully down her neck… Once finished, Sansa allows herself to take in her own pale face one last time… before standing up and leaving her mother's mirror, her father's bed, and all her memories of this place, behind.

Her corridor is suspiciously empty when she exits her room. Sansa quietly approaches the stairwell and peers down the winding stone steps, but all is dark and quiet. _Everyone in Winterfell is dead now… everyone but me._ Her steps echo off the stone until Sansa reaches the bottom stair, and arrives in the main foyer leading down to the Grey Hall. It's here she finds her uncle waiting to escort her. Sansa follows Benjen down the next flight until they are before the doors to the Grey Hall. Benjen pushes them open, and Sansa follows him inside, her heart drumming in her ears.

The Grey Hall, where just last night hundreds of men cheered, played games, and got drunk with one another, is now a desolate, freezing chamber. The air has taken on a misty atmosphere, and the walls are slick and sparkle with a thin layer of ice. To her left and right, the hall is filled with the undead all standing by in silence, their blue eyes following Sansa's every movement. There's thousands of them in all. Some are just skeletons standing there while others are more recently dead. Sansa recognizes the Captain of her guard with his jaw unhinged and fresh blood leaking down his chest. She recognizes her Handmaiden, the one Sansa had fired, with her golden hair torn to shreds and her breasts hanging exposed. Everyone dead, everyone watching her.

At the head of the room, sitting in the throne that belongs to her, is the Night's King. Up close, Sansa sees every detail about him she'd missed before. Black circles around his eyes, sharp horns circling his bald head, and pale, blue, weathered flesh. To her horror, the Night King's smile curls as she approaches him, and he lifts himself out of the chair to descend the steps. Sansa can't move, she can't blink, and she can't breathe. All she can do is stand there as the King of the Dead stops a foot in front of her, close enough that she can smell the rotten death emanating from him. His smile is the smile of amused evil, and his blue eyes penetrate Sansa's soul.

"What do you want from me?" she hears herself ask him.

Without a word, the Night King takes Sansa's face in his finger-tips and leans in. His kiss is cold… colder than winter's harshest winds. Her blood curdles and her body seizes up. The last thing Sansa thinks before her eyes glaze over blue as winter roses, are Jon's last words.


	25. Bran II

Author's Note: My apologies for the delay. I'm in the process of moving so everything's been hectic lately. If anyone feels like chatting with me, you can follow me on Twitter at _Wemolord_. New season of the show starts this summer and I can't wait to see what happens next. I'll die of shock if any of my predictions come true. Thank you all for your support! Let's continue this journey, shall we?

Bran

Waking up in a cold sweat, Bran reaches out through the darkness, expecting Meera to be there.

His hand finds nothing but icy snow.

He's lying in his make-shift toboggin while snow gently piles up around him, burying his numb legs. Men without faces trudge by him, ignoring the child in their midst as they make fires and huddle around each other for warmth. Bran blinks and looks around for any sign of The Hound, but ever since they were captured, his bodyguard was nowhere to be found. The masked man who murdered Meera was hiding him. Without anyone to help him, Bran was helpless, and could only sit in his bundle of blankets and furs, hoping one of these men has a kind enough heart not to kill him. The Masked Man had forbidden the Sellswords from doing him any harm, but it wasn't just Sellswords here. There are Ironborn as well, hundreds of them. More than the Sellswords, in fact. Their leader is a monstrously large Captain named Beor Kayne, former right hand man of Euron Greyjoy. Bran witnessed the man only once as they were traveling, arguing with the Masked Man about keeping Bran around. The Masked Man insisted that they need Bran for something.

For a while Bran wondered what they need him for, and decided it has to do with his power. Somehow, somebody knew about his gift. What other reason could someone have? _My blood is Stark blood. They might be looking to use me a hostage… but I can't help but shake the feeling there's more to this than that._

They arrived at Moat Cailin in the dusk of evening and set camp by nightfall. Thousands of men form their little army; an army of thieves, murderers and rapers. Bran hated every last one of them. It wasn't just the Masked Man who killed his Meera, they were _all_ responsible. _Damn them all to the Seven Hells for what they did. I won't let them get away with it. I can't. I have to do something…_

 _Yet what can I do? What can I do sitting here without my legs? Without Meera? I've always had Meera at my side, helping me when I couldn't walk… I loved her._ Tears sting his eyes, blinding him. He sniffs, holding back his sorrow and the will to just scream into the endless, starry sky.

"Oh look, the little rich pup is about to cry." One of the Ironborn men nearby points and chuckles while his buddies turn their heads to cast him weary looks. "He must be cold, is that it, boy? You need another blanket?"

Bran has to bite his tongue to keep himself silent. The taunter stands up from his fire pit and swaggers over to Bran, tilting his head, his grin wide and foolish. "Your ears stop working along with your legs, boy? I asked you a question."

"Oy, leave him be." Mumbles one of the others, but he ignored him and bends down in front of Bran with a long, meaty piece of chicken in his hands. Bran tries to ignore it and just defiantly glare into the man's eyes, but the smell of burned meat makes the roof of his mouth wet and his belly rumble.

"You must be starving, eh? How about you answer my question and I'll give you a bit o' my dinner?" The Ironborn man's grin widens so that Bran can see all of his rotten teeth. "Or maybe you'd like a nibble of my cock instead?"

"That's enough." The man's eyes dart up over Bran's head as a pair of footsteps crunch through the snow behind him. Bran wheels his head around and standing there is the Masked Man. He has the dagger with the naked woman on its hilt casually twiddling between his fingers, his bright blue eyes glaring into the Ironborn's. "I don't like repeating myself, y'know. My employer won't be very happy if he learns you've raped the boy."

The Ironborn scowls at the Masked Man and says, "I don't give two shits what your employer thinks, or what _you_ think. We are Ironborn! Under Euron's law, we will take what is ours! _We do not sow_ ; do you know what that means?!"

The Masked Man shrugs, says, "Have it your way," and slides his dagger through the Ironborn's jaw—its blade popping out beside his nose. The impact knocks a few of his rotten teeth out of his mouth as a river of blood follows. The man slacks to his knees, eyes rolling, and crashes dead into the snow beside Bran. The Masked Man removes his dagger and wipes the blade off on his sleeve, eyeing the other Ironborn who watch this happen and don't move. "Anyone else want to bother the boy?"

Finding himself holding his breath, Bran releases a long, winded sigh and glares up at the Masked Man. He's about to turn and leave when Bran reaches out and desperately snags a hold of his ankle. "Wait!"

"What is it, boy?" The Masked Man asks impatiently, "I have whores to tend to."

There's a million questions Bran has, but the first one that comes to mind is; "Where's the Hound? Is he dead?"

The Masked Man chuckles and shakes his head. "No. Boss needs him too. Don't know why, though; the man lives up to his reputation. Bloody animal, if you ask me. Still, I follow my orders."

"Wh-Where are you taking me?"

"I don't have time to talk with you all night, I have a very delicate whore waiting for me in my tent." He jerks his leg out of Bran's grasp. "You'll learn all you need to know in time. Give a holler if one of these inbreeds tries to touch you again. I'll be sleeping nearby."

 _Like I'll ever ask you for help. You killed Meera._ Still, Bran can't help but feel crestfallen as the man strides away and disappears under the flap of a tent.

Unable to sleep, Bran lies awake, staring up at the night sky. He has to fight back tears sometimes, and every time he starts to drift—he sees Meera again in his memory, smiling at him…

A horn blast jerks Bran out of his trance-like state. Some of the men are gathering their weapons and shields, others are shouting. _What's going on?_ Bran sits up, his back cracking from being stuck in one position for so long.

"There's a rider in the night! A woman!" Shouts one of the Sellswords, "Someone wake Daario and let him know, he's going to want a look at this one!"

There's a chorus perverse laughter as the sea of men part, and riding into camp, Bran spots a woman in red on a pure, white horse. Her cowl is up over her face, but Bran recognizes her immediately as Melisandre—the Red Woman he'd met at Greywater Watch. _What is she doing here? Did she know Howland's people were going to be massacred?_

When Melisandre notices Bran, she stops and dismounts her mare. The Ironborn and the Sellswords part as she removes her cowl and reveals her beauty. Even the laughter diminishes. She has a look of despair on her face, and Bran can't quite figure out why. When Melisandre walks over to him, she ignores the others and kneels down in front of Bran, gently touching his numb knee. "I'm sorry." She breathes, her expression pale as the snow.

Bran just blinks at her, stupefied. "Why are you sorry?"

The Red Woman shakes her head, a single tear sliding down her cheek. "I was wrong. I was wrong about everything."

"Aye, quit talking to the boy. I know you're here under special request and all—but we have orders." One of the Sellswords snaps at her. "Daario says no one touches him, speaks to him, or even smells him. Kid is royalty."

Melisandre continues to ignore the man, looking like she has more she wishes she could say. Bran wants to ask what she was so wrong about, but before he can—the sound of crunching footsteps announces the Masked Man's return.

"Who do we have here?" The Masked Man asks. Melisandre stands and faces him, bowing her head.

"Littlefinger sent me here."

"Ah. Then you must be the sorceress?" The Masked Man reaches up and removes the black cloth. His face is surprisingly handsome and boyish, and his grin is charming. "My name is Daario Naharis. Enchanted to meet you, my dear." He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, eyes never leaving hers. Perhaps he expected her to be taken with him, but Melisandre doesn't show him a trace of emotion.

 _Littlefinger sent her? Littlefinger…_ Bran remembers hearing his name during the fight at Greywater Watch. _So, he's the one who's causing all of this? Why? What does he want?_ Jon and Sansa had both warned him not to trust Littlefinger, but Bran had met the man in the crypts of Winterfell and he hadn't seemed like a terrible person then…

"Don't mind the boy." Daario chuckles, "He's our honored guest—come join me in my tent tonight, I'm sure we have plenty to discuss."

"I'm comfortable here, thank you." Melisandre smiles scathingly at him, and Daario briefly frowns, as if hurt by the denial at his offer.

In the end, Daario leaves them be, returning to his tent. Melisandre takes a seat by the fire. Bran can't help but admire her courage, being around all these men. The Ironborn are casting her devious glances while the Sellswords sharpen their swords, jadedly watching her. _They don't trust her. She must have a reputation…_ Melisandre never stops staring at Bran over the fire, eyes red as blood, and Bran feels a stab at his heart—a longing he's never known before—to reach out and touch her face through flames for warmth, and just dive into her embrace. Bran blinks, remembering Meera, and forgets about the strange desire, settling back into his wolf pelt. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep… but it never comes.

When Bran opens his eyes again, everyone is awake, but the sun has not come out. _The Long Night. It's now covered the entire North in its shadow. If Jon is dead, then who rules Winterfell? Will Sansa be able to protect the North? Or is this all just a part of Littlefinger's game?_


	26. Jon IV

Jon

The falling snow follows Jon and his small army through a forest of giant, dead evergreens. _Where I go, winter goes with me. There's no escaping it now._ His horse grunts impatiently as she plods through the ankle-deep trenches, her mane now white with frost. Jon gives her a pat with his left hand, examining the long, winding road ahead for any cause for alarm. So far, his party's journey has been uneventful. Lord Mallister rides at his left on a black mare, his beard and winged helmet catching snow. On his right rides Ser Davos Seaworth, and on his right, Lord Edmure Tully. Behind them Thoros of Myr swings back a flask of ale and drinks like it's his mother's milk; and behind him are the two thousand weary soldiers tasked with going south with them. Lord Mallister had left three hundred men at Seagard and Lord Edmure had left one hundred to return to Riverrun. The Brotherhood without Banners, meanwhile, Jon had tasked with defending the Twins. _If Sansa brings her army south, I need men to slow them down at every stop along the way. They'll probably die, but… it's what needs to be done._ Lord Mallister understood that, but Lord Edmure did not. _The fool couldn't be trusted with such information. He'd likely not come with us if he knew, and we still need his men._

It was a bit of a miracle that Lord Edmure Tully had agreed not to retreat to Riverrun like he'd been threatening all along. Jon suspects it had something to do with the look in Lord Mallister's eye whenever Edmure brought it up. _If Edmure deserts us, it will be treason. He's a spineless craven, and I won't let spineless cravens hold me back any longer. Too long I've relied on the ignorance of cravens and morons to help me. If he deserts us, betrays us, or disobeys me in any way, I won't show him mercy._

Jon notices Davos glaring at him, his face nestled in a black scarf. Ever since their disagreement, he hadn't spoken to the man. _I'm sorry, Davos. I wish you could believe me. I know what I'm doing._

The Lord of Light had told him a great deal, much of which didn't make any sense to Jon, for it was spoken in Valyrian. But it was definitely a voice, and while Jon couldn't understand what was said, Thoros could. The Red Priest translated many of the words Jon could remember hearing in that fire…

 _Daenerys is the key. Sam told me that, and so did this Lord of Light. That can't be a coincidence. These dragons are going to be the thing that stops the White Walkers from killing everyone. I just have to convince her to see things my way… Whatever it takes._

Three horses appear up ahead, galloping as fast as they can; Jon recognizes them as part of the scouting party he'd sent ahead hours before leaving Seagard. One of them is bleeding from a slash across his arm, and the other two are drenched in sweat despite the cold weather. "My Lords!" The head of the pack shouts, nearly falling off his horse by the time they get close enough to hear them. Jon spurs his mount with a kick and rides up to meet them along with Lord Mallister and Ser Davos (Lord Edmure lags behind).

"What's happened?" Jon asks.

"They—they were everywhere—they ambushed us before we knew what was happening!" gasps the scout, out of breath.

"Calm yourselves and speak plainly. Who did this to you?"

" _Dothraki_ , My Lord. There's—there's Dothraki ahead. Thousands of them…"

"Did he say _Dothraki_?!" shouts Lord Edmure, still catching up.

Jon's knuckles tighten around his spurs, and glares up ahead, seeing no sign of Dothraki—just more tall trees and falling snow. "How far ahead are they?"

"N-No more than six hundred yards, My Lord."

"We can't face an army of Dothraki savages! We must turn back at once!" Lord Edmure cries, "This was a fool's errand!"

"We won't have to," Jon says, eyeing Davos with a frown. "These Dothraki, they fought for Daenerys before, yes?"

Davos nods slowly. "Aye, they did."

"They abandoned her after she burned King's Landing to the ground." Lord Mallister grunts, "If they're this far north already, they must not realize winter is coming for them. These Dothraki have never experienced a thing like winter before."

"Then these men are not loyal." Jon says decisively. "We are surrounded by forest, so going around them might be the wiser move here. If we can slip past them under cover of the trees, we might make it… We will not turn back."

"Might I offer another solution?" pipes up Thoros, having quietly ridden up beside them still drinking from his flask.

Davos glares at him and says, "No you may not. I'm with Jon on this. We can't fight them."

"We don't need to fight _all_ of them. Just _one_." Thoros smiles, "The Dothraki are tribal by nature. Instead of Kings and Queens, they have _Khals_ and _Khaleesis_. If these Dothraki no longer follow Daenerys Stormborn, then they now follow whomever they see fit to be Khal. I suspect these Dothraki were already tired of serving a _woman,_ and that's why they left. We can safely assume this Khal will follow their tribal rules—whoever defeats a Khal in battle could earn the rest of the tribe's respect. You see? Think of it has a trial by combat, only if you win you get to keep their army for yourself."

Davos scoffs and shakes his head. " _Brilliant_ idea, you amaze me. That's just about the most _foolish_ thing I've ever heard. Jon, this is why you can't listen to this man. He's drunk off his horse!"

"I am not!" Thoros cries, taking another swig of his ale. "Getting there though."

Jon shakes his head and says, "And what if after I defeat their Khal, they all decide to challenge me one by one until I eventually fall? Then what? What if they just refuse and attack us all? I can't take that risk, Thoros."

"The Dothraki would respect your strength, if you proved you had it. I don't know, this is just one man's opinion. I've met one Dothraki in my life, but he'd left his people to pursue a life as a sellsword. I don't claim to be an expert on their ways… but I do believe that if you defeated their Khal in single combat, sure, it could all go wrong—or you could win an army of Dothraki to your side and shove that in Daenerys's face when we meet her. It'll likely earn her favor, bringing them back to her. It's up to you."

"Either way, these Dothraki have been pillaging our lands and if they're moving north, it puts my people at risk." Lord Mallister sighs, "I support whatever you decide, Jon. The Dothraki are savages… but they're also battle hardened _warriors_. These are the kind of men you want on your side, not fighting against you."

"The rewards don't outweigh the risks. We could all die if we try and face them now." says Lord Edmure, "I'm not doing this, no way."

"Shut up, Edmure or I'll—" Mallister begins to say, but Jon interrupts him.

"I will ride ahead alone and do what I can to stop them from pillaging the countryside. None of you need risk your lives…" _I won't let my people get butchered again._

"Jon, you can't be serious." Davos gasps, his face sagging with despair, "This is suicide."

"I can bring him back, remember?" Thoros grins.

"Not if they tear him apart! If you're going, I'm coming with you. You can't stop me this time."

Jon can't help but gawk at Davos in shock. "I can't let you risk your life for me, Davos."

"That's what Kings do all the bloody time! I'm coming with you, and you can't stop it."

"There's an idea." Thoros chuckles, "Just do what you did with Lord Edmure— _lie to them_ , Jon. Tell them you're the _King of the North_. They'll see you as a warrior, and they'll see you as a King. They followed Daenerys, they'll follow you if you prove yourself. Even these savages will know what _King_ means."

"This is madness." Davos says incredulously.

"I can't allow them to do what they like. Lord Mallister is right, they'll make better allies than they will enemies." Jon argues stubbornly, "Davos, I'm ordering you to stay behind."

"If we stay behind they won't believe you're a King. They must see that you have an army at your backs." Lord Mallister says, "We'll ride with you, Jon. All of us. If it comes to a fight, then fight we shall."

"But—"

Lord Edmure interrupts Jon, spitting with anger. "I'm not going. I refuse. Fuck the Dothraki and fuck all of you if you think—"

Lord Mallister shoots Edmure an intimidating glare, silencing the man. Jon says, "It's alright. Lord Edmure, stay behind if you wish. Guard our flanks. I'll take half of the army with us. A thousand men should be enough. But Lord Edmure, if I return and find you've deserted with half my army…" Jon pauses, mostly for dramatic effect, holding the fear in Edmure's eyes at attention… "I will find you."

They ride off, the hooves of a thousand horses storming through the snow.

Eventually they arrive in a small village just outside of Darry where the ruined fortress burns on top of a white hill. The smoke from the fire is the first thing they witness, followed by the sound of men hooting and hollering in the wind. Jon sees them first—the Dothraki, and all their glory. Homes burn, villagers lie in bloody heaps amidst their families, and flocks of chickens gaggle about in franticness. Large men with copper muscles stride from building to building, looting, murdering, and raping. One of them notices Jon and his army approaching and yells to the others in a language Jon has never heard before. _How am I going to reason with these people—men like this—when I can't even speak their native tongue?_ Suddenly Davos and Edmure seemed wiser men than he gave them credit for. _This might've been a mistake. There's thousands of them. My men are brave, but most of them aren't soldiers. It wouldn't be as quick as when Howland Reed ambushed me, but eventually the result would be the same. If today is the day I die, then Lord of Light be damned… The Ghost of High Heart said a savior would rise and fall three times. If I'm who she spoke of, then I'm supposed to die again._

It's impossible to say who of these men is Khal—there's too many to count, too many to focus on. More than half of them stand just as tall, or taller, than Tormund Giantsbane. Jon Snow rides ahead of the rest of his war party and dismounts his horse, holding his hands up in the air as a sign of peace. Most of the Dothraki are silent, distrustful, and gripping their swords and axes at the ready. _These men have been through hell._ The closer Jon gets, the more he notices how injured they all are—some have missing limbs that were tended to without finesse, while others suffer from long, disfiguring burns on their faces, chests, and arms; the markings of their former battle in King's Landing.

Jon clears his throat and yells, "Where is your Khal?!"

There are numerous grunts and snickers amongst them. Then one of the largest steps forward, gently parting the sea of Dothraki to appear before Jon Snow. His hair is jet black, curly, and hangs on each side of his face in a tangled mess. A deep, bleeding scar blinds his left eye, while his right glares up into Jon's eyes without trepidation. His muscles ripple in the firelight, the braided beard hanging from his chin sways, and his smirk suggests foul intent. He says in a deep, smooth voice, "Anha am Khal."

"Do any of you speak the common tongue?" Jon asks stubbornly.

More chuckles of laughter. Jon and his men grow more and more uneasy as silence persists, watching as some of the Dothraki stand and join the one who stepped forward, four in all. The Khal says, "I do. Enough to tell you coming here was mistake."

Jon frowns and Davos blurts in, "You know not who you're speaking to. This is the King of the North, Jon Snow."

"Snow?" The Khal lifts his brow with amusement, crossing his massive arms. "They say this sky powder is called snow."

"Snow was the name given to me for being born a Bastard. Do you know what a bastard is?" Jon asks.

The Khal roars with glee, "Bastard King. What do I care what breed you are?"

"Because my true name isn't Snow," Jon says, and he says it loudly, "I am Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. By right I am more than King of the North, I am King of Westeros. You and your people are invading on _my_ lands."

There's a shift in the Dothraki's attitude at this reveal. Jon can feel Davos watching him nervously, but doesn't remove his glare from the Khal, who says, "Daenerys Targaryen is the only Targaryen. She is the last of her kind. Her and her Dragons."

"That's what she thinks." Jon says, "I aim to take the throne for myself and rule Westeros as King."

The Khal laughs again and lifts his axe up to rest on the muscles of his shoulder. "She will not give up her throne, not to you. You and your small army of babes won't make it to Dragonstone. Your lives end today."

 _He doesn't care. This isn't working._ Jon frowns and dismounts his horse. As he does so, he calmly removes Longclaw from its hilt. "There's no need for us to fight. I didn't come here to kill any of you. I can see you've all suffered heavy losses at the hands of Daenerys. Join me, and help me bring justice for your fallen. Join me, and you will be rewarded in land, gold, and titles. Whatever your people need, I can provide for them, if you help me."

"The Dothraki will never fight for a Targaryen again!" The Khal thunders, though Jon notices the others around him are now glaring at their Khal instead of Jon. "We fought for her and her dragons turned on us— _burned my people alive!_ We were suffering, and calling for her help—but she never came. I watched her fly off on her dragon, abandon us to burn in the stone city like we were insects! She used us!"

"I am not like her!" Jon insists, "I don't use my men, I trust them with my life! You can ask any man here and they'll tell you the same!"

The Khal spits at Jon's feet, shaking his head and brandishing his axe. "Enough talk. I've always wanted to kill one of you Kings. I will—"

The bite of an axe appearing in the Khal's neck cuts off whatever he was going to say. Everyone gasps as the Khal splutters blood, cross-eyed, and falls to his knees. One of the Dothraki that had joined his side is standing over him now, breathing heavily, pulling his axe back out of the now dead Khal's throat. He's smaller than the Khal, skinny to the bone, but when he straightens up he stands taller than any other, facing Jon. "Are you really Targaryen?"

Jon nods slowly. "I can prove it."

Thoros hands Jon a lit torch and Jon holds it up in the air for all to see. He then removes a glove from his hand and, without hesitation, clamps his hand down over the fire. The Dothraki watch with wide, wondering eyes. Something changes in their faces, something like admiration Jon has never see before; even from his Brothers of the Watch. Jon smiles as one by one they begin to bend the knee. The one who killed their Khal is the first to bend his knee. Jon extends his unburned hand, and the Dothraki takes it. Jon says, "I will never ask you to bend the knee to me. That is my promise. You are warriors, as I am. Fight by my side, and you will be treated with the same dignity and respect the rest of my men have. I promise you."

The Dothraki nod, and the skinny one who put an end to their Khal says, "All we want is Daenerys to pay for what she's done to us."

"She will." Jon swears, his grip on Longclaw painfully tight. "I'll see to it myself."


	27. Arya III

Arya

When the fleet of ships sailed close enough, she spotted the decaying farms along Dragonstone's shoreline, as well as the farmers watching their fleet approach. Some clutch their wives and children close to them in fear while others flee inside the ruins of their homes. _This island has seen better days._

Daenerys boards a dock with Tyrion at her side. Arya watches them from the ship a hundred yards away, leaning on the railing, taking in the sights; from the towering castle built into the face of the active volcano, to the black, jagged walls rising around the Stone Drum. A cloud of dense smog is quietly curling up from the crater where hundreds of old mines line the walls like a bee hive. Towering over the beach is a sea tower carved in the likeness of a giant, black dragon. Whoever built this castle knew what dragons looked like. It was eerily similar to Rhaegal and Viserion.

The two dragons soar high over the island of Dragonstone, their shadows sliding across the land. The small folk watch on in awe, screaming in terror and pointing up to the skies. From afar, Arya watches Dany lift her hand up as if she were feeding an invisible bird. The dragons notice this gesture at once and fly down to land on either side of her, their impact causing an earth-trembling shockwave. Dany's silver hair blows to one side as she lowers her hand and calmly strides up a rocky pathway with Tyrion by her side. The Dragons climb the mountainous rock wall to follow her, snarling at each-other. Soon they're out of sight.

Arya glances over her shoulder at The Mountain and glares up into his red eyes beneath a blood-soaked, dented helm. Ever since the dragons had made a meal out of him, his kingsguard armor had caved in on his chest and shoulders. Black sludge that was supposed to be blood leaks from under his breast plate and down the length of his bulky arms. Arya turns her nose up at him and says, "You know you reek like shit. Go take a bath or something."

The Mountain doesn't move. He just stares at her, breathing ominously. Arya rolls her eyes and starts walking. Her undead guard follows her, stomping across the deck. When she reaches the door to Dany's cabin, Arya turns and tells him to stand guard at the door. She needs some alone time. _He understands guard the door but he doesn't understand take a bath. What a moron._

She finds the council room empty and takes out Needle from her sheath, brandishing it in the air and striking her water-dancing pose. _I have to practice using my left hand now_. She strikes the air and spins on one foot. _My balance is off. I keep flexing the muscles in my right arm—it feels like I still have a hand there—and it hurts. I have to push through the pain. Syrio said pain is just a lesson. I can do this._ Performing an about-face while twisting the smooth handle of her sword around, Arya dances around the room with grace and finesse—until losing her footing. She falls with both arms outstretched and lands on the stump of her wrist. A scream bursts from her lungs as white hot pain sears up her forearm. The dismembered wrist Cersei bestowed her is pumping blood all over the clean, rich carpet. _Fuck... Shit… Cunt…_

She hurries down a fleet of steps, deeper into _the Red Wind_ , holding her stump up in front of her face. Her whole arm is covered in blood by the time she reaches the medical chambers where she finds Missandei leaning over Greyworm on a bed. Arya bursts inside, wincing and grunting from the pain. Missandei looks up at her, startled and teary-eyed. Arya rushes over to the cabinet, hoping to find something to stop the bleeding.

"Are you hurt?" asks Missandei quietly.

"I'm fine." Insists Arya, unrolling bandages and discarding her bloody ones to the floor. Every time she sees her raw, bleeding stump she winces with disgust; and this time is no different. Missandei comes upon her from behind and takes her by her shoulder, smiling warmly at her.

"It's alright. Let me help you."

"Alright." Arya hands her the bandages. She takes them and leads her over to a basin full of dark liquid near Greyworm's bed. "Why aren't you with the Queen?"

"She's allowed me to stay aboard and take care of…" Missandei trails off, looking at the man lying next to them. Arya glances over him, and feels a sting of guilt. What was a lost hand compared to losing your face? The fire had swept away his eyes, nose, lips, and ears. It left only a disfigured, ugly mask of rotten flesh. His chest rises and falls steadily, breathing through a small corner of his jaw untouched by damage. "He won't survive very much longer." Missandei whispers.

"You love him." Arya says.

Missandei nods. "I do."

"I'm sorry."

The handmaiden takes Arya's stump and lowers it into the basin. More pain, more lessons. It was alcohol that she'd dipped her wrist in, the blood mixing with the pool, turning it bright red. When she lifts her stump back out with a wince of pain, the wound is clean, though still bleeding. Missandei begins to apply the bandages, focusing her eyes on Arya with clear determination. _She's looking for a distraction. She's probably been in here all day._ "Thank you for this. I was clumsy and fell on it."

Missandei just nods solemnly. "You should be more careful. If you get it infected they might have to lop off more of your arm."

" _Great_." Arya seethes, her arm throbbing from wrist to elbow.

Missandei returns to Greyworm, leaning over him and caressing his shoulder with her finger-tips. Arya sadly watches them, keeping her arm elevated. The handmaiden says, "I can't even tell if he's awake right now… Or if he's trapped inside his body, screaming for help."

"If he was awake, you'd know it." Arya says, "He'd react when you touch him… but he doesn't."

"I wish there was something I could do…" Missandei sniffs. Two thin trails of tears slide down her smooth, copper cheeks. She wipes them away with her finger and stands up. "Forgive me, I thought I was done crying but it just never stops."

"It's alright…" Arya mutters. _You should be grateful you still can cry. I don't think I know how to anymore._ "How long does he have left?"

"A day. Maybe more." Missandei's lips tremble when she says it, and Arya's heart goes out to her. "I have to be here, by his side, for as long as I can. He needs me, and I need him. I… I'll be lost without him. He's still here—and I am lost without him already."

Silence follows these words. Silence broken only by the crashing of the waves hitting the ship's hull outside. Arya closes her eyes... When she opens them, she says, "You should get some fresh air and something to eat."

Missandei stares at her and for a moment Arya feels as though her mind is being read… but then Missandei nods and gets up. "You're right. I have to keep my strength up as well. Thank you, Arya. Will you watch him for me? I'll be only a moment."

Arya nods. Missandei leaves…

Arya takes Needle out from her sheath and places it in her lap, sitting on a stool beside Greyworm, she stares into the black, twisted carnage of his face… _It's no way to live, like this. He's only in pain… If I do this, I could get in big trouble with the Queen, couldn't I? This guy was their army's Commander, right? But isn't it mercy to put someone out of their misery?_

When Missandei returns to the bowels of the ship, she's carrying a goblet of water in her hands. Upon entering the room, that goblet slips from her fingers and tumbles to the floor, splashing cool water across her toes. Arya is standing over Greyworm, sliding her sword back in its sheath. There's a small hole gushing blood in Greyworm's chest. ' _That's where the heart is'_ , she remembers The Hound telling her.

"What have you done?!" Missandei screams.

"What you couldn't," Arya mutters, "You said you wished you could help him… I did it for you."

Missandei falls to her knees, clutching her bosom, her jaw unhinged. "You killed him?"

"It's quick. He might not've even felt it." Arya swears, "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be back so soon… I would've cleaned it up a bit." There's no words Arya could utter that would make Missandei feel better. Arya sighs and leaves the room, casting Missandei and Greyworm one last look before climbing up the stairs…

The sun is falling, turning the sky dark blue, when Tyrion arrives in Arya's chambers. She's on her bed with her arm up in the air, flexing the phantom fingers she used to own. When Tyrion's shadow appears in her doorstep, she sits up and looks him dead in the eye.

"I heard about what happened." Tyrion mutters, his face cloaked in darkness. "May I come in?"

"Am I in trouble?"

"Missandei is upset, but not at you, it seems." Tyrion sighs heavily, as if the weight of Westeros was on his shoulders, entering the room slowly and closing the door behind him. "Daenerys asked her if she wanted you dead. Missandei is too kind heartened for revenge. Still, it would be… awkward if you went and spoke with her. I'd avoid her."

"I don't feel guilty about it." Arya says, "I don't feel anything about it…"

"You didn't know him like we did." Tyrion grimaces.

"No." Arya shakes her head, "It's more than that. I've killed so many now… I'm just used to it."

"There's something you should know." Tyrion says, "Jon Snow is coming. He knows we're here and he has an army."

"Jon is coming?" Arya's heart skips a beat and her cheeks flush red with excitement. "He's coming here? To Dragonstone? _When?! How?!_ "

"Soon. I can't say when for certain, but you'll know when I do." Tyrion smiles at her and says, "Look… Right now, Daenerys is still questioning your loyalty, and after this… it's been called into question whether or not you're fit to serve her. You can't just… kill anyone you like, no matter how used to it you are. There's a process for these kinds of things. If there wasn't, then there'd be chaos. You understand that, don't you?"

Arya rolls her eyes. "I know."

"Then this can't happen again. When Jon shows up here…" Tyrion sighs, "We don't know what he's after. There's a lot that could go wrong and you being his sister complicates things. Especially since it is you."

"You're worried I'm going to screw up your alliance or something?" Arya shakes her head, unable to hold back her grin. _As soon as Jon sees me he won't care what the politics are like. He's my brother._

"I want your word that if things look bad you won't fly off the handle and kill someone."

"I won't." Arya promises. "Just as long as I'm there to see him as soon as he gets here."

"There's our other dilemma." Tyrion groans, running his hand through his long, curly hair. "You see, the world believes Daenerys is responsible for killing Cersei. We need them to continue believing it. You swore to help keep the truth hidden when we hired you. Will you continue to do so?"

"You're asking me to lie… to Jon?" Arya scowls at him, her trust for the Dwarf evaporating instantly. "I can't."

"You must." Tyrion urges, "If the truth reaches the wrong ears it could be disastrous for us all. Please, Arya. I would get on my knees and beg you but my knees are old and tired."

"I haven't seen him in years—since before I left Winterfell… and you want me to lie to him after all this time? I can't, Tyrion. I—he'll know I'm lying, he always knows when I'm lying." _Just like Father always knew._

"I know what it's like. I do." Tyrion says slowly, "But if you're going to stay with us, you need to be on _our_ side. If Jon and Daenerys are going to work together, the lie has to stand, or it could all fall apart. Dany will lose her credibility, not just with Jon's people—but with what little she has of her own. The good people of Dragonstone have bent the knee to her, but they did so out of fear of her reputation."

Arya lowers her head and glares down at the sheets of her bed, lost in thought. _What does it matter? None of this will when I see him again. Everything will be fine once he's here, I know it._ "Alright. I won't tell him."

"Thank you." Tyrion sighs with relief, leaning against the wall. "You're a unique sort of girl, you know. I'm truly glad you're on our side, after everything my family has done to yours…"

"Girl's gotta eat." Arya grins. "You're not as bad as I thought you'd be. The Mummer's Shows in Braavos were wrong about you."

Tyrion stares at her in confusion. "Shows? What shows?"

For the next hour, Arya informs Tyrion all about it with great detail.


	28. Daenerys III

Daenerys

They bent the knee without a fight, sweat pouring from their frightened faces—faces that still haunt her as she sleeps, for their fear is not what she wanted when she became ruler… _yet it's their fear that keeps me in power._ Ser Hobber Redwyne is a freckle-faced, broad-shouldered, orange-haired dimwit and bully, yet when he laid eyes on Rhaegal and Viserion climbing up the mountainside, a dark stain spread down his thigh. He, like his fellow knights, all bent the knee and bowed their heads, pleading for mercy. No sword or shield or armor could protect them if Daenerys so much as whispered " _Dracarys_."

In the end, she spared their lives if they served her faithfully and give her all the information they can on Dragonstone and the locals. According to Hobber, he was sent here months ago by Cersei Lannister; ordered to guard the castle in case Stannis was still alive. Tyrion was suspicious of this answer on account of the Redwyne family being not only loyal, but related to House Tyrell. After Cersei blew up Margaery Tyrell, Tyrion said it was unusual for a Redwyne to obey The Mad Queen. Hobber argued that he does what he's told, Cersei was his Queen, after-all, even if he hated her. "She'd have had my head if I refused. I like my head where it is."

 _Ser Hobber "Slobber" Redwyne, related to Lady Olenna Tyrell. Tyrion thinks he can be useful in repairing our alliance with the Tyrells… I don't see how this fat, drunk, lazy knight could help us, but Tyrion insists he has his ways, and so does Varys. I'll trust the matter to them and try to get some rest…_

Daenerys is spread-eagled on a new, wide bed with a translucent, white sheet covering her legs. The stars stream light through her window, but it's not enough to illuminate the shadows around the chamber. Her room is larger than even the council chambers aboard _the Red Wind_ ; and filled with things she'd never find in Essos. The previous ruler of Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon, slept in this very room not long ago. _I wonder what Stannis would think if he knew a Targaryen had returned to their rightful home? Would he try to fight me for it? I never knew the man, so I shouldn't worry about it. If he's truly dead, then it doesn't matter._

 _So why can't I sleep?_ Rolling her head, Dany stares up into the banisters high above, lost in her thoughts. A tingle crawls along her neck, and she remembers how Jorah loved to trace his magical, cracked finger along her skin while they made love. _Oh Jorah, my love… I wish you could be here with me. I need you now more than ever…_

That night, Dany has a dream. Drogon's black, smooth scales are just as warm as ever and his ear-splitting roar is unmistakable—yet as they soar over clouds, whenever Dany tries to see her baby's face, Drogon turns his head away… and roars with fury. _"Drogon, it's me. It's your mother!"_ Dany cries, crawling along the spines of his back, fighting back the wind whipping her in the face. That's when she notices the clouds disappearing and the sky turning black and empty. The air grows cold and snow patters along her bare shoulders, making her nipples hard and her hairs stand on end. She screams, _"Drogon!"_

Her own scream wakes her, sitting straight up from damp pillows, her chest glistening with sweat. All she hears is her heart pounding in her skull. The darkness in her room is startlingly bright compared to that dark sky in her dream. _It felt so real… Like Drogon was alive…_

As her heart reconciles, and the quiet night settles back in, so too does the bitter, harsh pain of reality. She curls up against her pillow, wishing she could feel Drogon's scales again and the comforting heat beneath them. _Rhaegal hardly ever lets me touch him anymore. He resents me for what happened to Drogon, I know it in my heart when I look him in the eye. He's been getting in fights with Viserion almost every day since it happened. I need to calm him down before he does something… in his nature._

Next morning, Dany goes to the War Room where Tyrion and Varys are waiting for her. In the center of the massive, stone cavernous room is The Painted War Table—a massive stone carved in the likeness of Westeros. Tyrion stands level with the table's surface, and grins when she enters. "Good Morning, Your Grace."

"I wouldn't call it a good morning," Dany sighs, "and am I your Grace, yet?"

Varys smiles as well, saying, "There will be a formal ceremony today before all of Dragonstone's citizens. Septon Barre, or Tyrion, will crown you as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and all the rest of the titles you've earned."

Dany blinks, amazed by how little she finds she cares about this. "Then… today I will be Queen?"

Varys turns his eyes down at Tyrion as he says, "At the moment, Westeros has no ruler, and by rule of law; as Usurper to the Throne, which you most certainly are, you have the option of taking power. With the Seven Kingdoms being in disarray under Cersei's rule; it's hard to say if the other Noble Families in Power will bend the knee to you, or contest your claim to the throne with their own claims as it's happened in recent years."

Tyrion frowns and says, "We can already expect it to happen when Jon Snow arrives. I have a feeling he isn't coming here to drink and be friends."

"What makes you say that?" Varys asks with feign surprise.

"He's gathering an army, an army getting larger every day. Even the people of Dragonstone have heard of this fabled Bastard King of the North."

"The stories my Little Birds sing agree with you, my friend." says Varys coyly, "I've even heard this Jon Snow doesn't melt in fire. _Blood of the Dragon_ … Sounds familiar."

"If that's true then maybe we should put it to the test?" Dany seethes, leaning over the war table and glaring down at the little island of Dragonstone. _When compared to the entire continent of Westeros, it looks so small and insignificant._ _Can we really make this place the Seven Kingdom's new capital?_ "Who are the other families with significant power that I should worry about? Name them all for me, please, Varys."

"Well Jon Snow represents the North even if he's not truly their King, odd as it may seem. He also represents the Riverlands, having collected Lord Edmure Tully and his army. Last word has it they've left Seagard and are heading south. They'll eventually know we've taken hold of Dragonstone, especially after today, so if they don't know we're not in King's Landing—it's like inviting him to come here."

"I'm aware of that, go on."

"The true ruler of the North right now is Sansa Stark in Winterfell." Varys leans over the table and points a short, stubby finger at the far end of the table where, amidst forest and hills, is a great castle Dany has never seen before, carved into the stone. "We might expect Jon to argue for Winterfell to be the new capital. We could use that for bargaining in case we need it."

"I'm not giving up anything to this man. Dragonstone is our home now, and it's where I will sit on my new throne." Dany says, glaring at Varys. Her Master of Spies doesn't cow beneath her stare, but he does cast her a withering look of disbelief.

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"We can't predict what this Jon Snow will want, so leave the predictions to the philosophers and let's move on. Who else is a threat?"

"I prefer to think of them as potential allies rather than threats." Varys replies.

"Until they bend the knee to me and swear fealty, they're all threats."

Tyrion's frown catches her eye, and gives her pause. _Am I right? Or am I just upset because of last night?_ Her Hand says, "If we treat them like threats then they will think we are threats to them. You have to try and see things from their perspective before you judge them. Jon can be our ally, as can all the others, right Varys?"

"I can't say. The Reach is currently under Tyrell control and with Lady Olenna abandoning us after the battle… it will take some time for that wound to heal, if it's not already too late. As for Dorne, I'm afraid they might be a lost cause. They threatened war if we crossed onto their territory again. Lucky for us they're all the way in the farthest southern corner of the world; out of the way, in other words. The Crownlands have no ruler aside from you, Daenerys, so today they will belong to you. The Westerlands have no Lannister in power, but that could all change soon." Varys eyes Tyrion with a slowly growing smile as the Dwarf realizes what he's getting at and gawks.

"You can't be serious?"

"With Casterly Rock without a Lord to rule over its people, the Westerlands will fall or be taken by somebody else. Perhaps the Ironborn? I hear they've gathered in the North under a new leader, someone called _Beor_ … or _Bear._ My Little Bird had a hard time telling the difference apart. My point is, Tyrion, you are the Son of Tywin Lannister and rightful heir to the Rock."

Tyrion and Dany share glances and she notices his cheeks light up red. _If he leaves my side, I truly am lost. No Jorah, no Tyrion… I couldn't possibly—_

"I would've given anything to be Lord of Casterly Rock." Tyrion says, his brow furrowed as he glares down at the painted table where the Rock rises over the Western Ocean. "But my place is here now, as Hand of the Queen. Varys, you forget, there's still one other son of Tywin—one with better looks and longer legs, mind you. He might hate it, but I believe Jaime could rule there if we give him the chance."

Varys tilts his head and asks, "Where is Jaime? Have you heard word from him? Because I haven't, and that's saying something."

"He was on a mission for Cersei… Which means he could literally be anywhere on this map." Tyrion scans the table, biting the inside of his cheek. "I can't say for certain where he is…"

"Then we can't exactly give him The Rock, now can we?"

"Do you trust Jaime with this?" Daenerys asks Tyrion calmly.

"I trust Jaime with my life." Tyrion replies honestly, "He saved me from certain death at my father's hands. I wouldn't be here if not for him. If he knew I was still alive, he'd come here, without question."

"For what cause, I wonder?" Varys ponders, "After-all… you did murder his father in the privy."

" _Our_ father." Tyrion growls. "I'm sure once I saw him I could explain… He wouldn't kill me, if that's what you're suggesting? Not Jaime. He might be a lot of things, but there's no man I'd trust my life in more than him."

"Then if he shows up, bring him before me." Daenerys says, turns to Varys and asks with a dry tone, "Are there any others?"

"There is one more, Your Grace… One that brings me the most unease. The Vale is currently under Lord Robyn Arryn's control, but it's the young lord's father, Petyr Baelish, that truly has the reins of power. They call him Littlefinger, he was the Master of Coin for the Late King, Robert Baratheon before Tywin gave him power for helping him taking back King's Landing for the Lannisters. His rise to power has been giving me grief for many years, and now I fear he's gained more than enough power to represent a significant threat— _not_ an ally—for all of us."

Dany can't believe this is the first she's hearing of this man and turns to Tyrion. "Is this true?"

Tyrion grimaces, "He's not a pleasant man, to be sure, but a threat?"

"I know him better than most men yet I hardly know him at all—but what I do know is that Petyr Baelish is the greatest threat to Westeros we have. He'd see every single House fall, watch thousands of innocents burn alive, just to be King. It's the only thing I'm confident he wants. He'll never stop, no matter what, he'll always be our enemy."

"Where is this Lord Baelish now? I want him brought before me." Daenerys says.

"In Winterfell." Varys says, appearing uncertain. "At the moment, he's serving at Sansa's side on her council."

"I can handle Sansa." Tyrion adds, "She used to be my wife. She may have no love for me, but she'll know I'm not going to hurt her. I can get her on our side… though having Jon on our side might complicate matters after what happened between them."

Varys sighs, sweeping around the table to look down at the eastern side of the map. "As for Littlefinger, it's too difficult to predict his next move. I have my Little Birds waiting in The Vale in case he returns there but that's as far North as I'm willing to risk their lives. Winter is on its way here and that may prove to be the most challenging enemy we have."

"We will be prepared." Dany promises.

It isn't long after their meeting before Dany is standing in her new throne room surrounded by hundreds of people. Tyrion is at her side as the Septon brings her a crown made of Dragonglass. There was only one man on Dragonstone capable for forging her this crown, as well as the massive, obsidian throne behind her. She sees him in the sea of on-lookers, smiling at his own work. Tyrion had found him. He was one of four in the world who could work with obsidian. _A useful skill_ , Dany thinks as the crown of black glass is placed upon her head. It has six, sharp points rising around a smooth, curved base. Three dragons designed into the crown curl their necks around each-other, their eyes filled with tiny, red rubies. The Septon lifts his hands up and shouts, "I now proclaim Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms!"

There's cheering and clapping from the crowd. _People are happy for me… Or is it all an act?_ Daenerys faces her dragonglass throne, wishing she could smile but her face is expressionless. _The throne is beautiful._ A thousand swords of black, glistening glass rise up from the stone. The black stairs leading up to it rise twenty feet high. When Dany finally reaches her throne, she takes her seat and faces her people while Viserion and Rhaegal roar outside the throne room's windows. Dany leans back, feeling the groove of her throne against her shoulders, and realizes she has everything she's ever wanted… and nothing.


	29. Sam I

Sam

Wheels rolling across pebbles is the first thing he hears when waking that day. Sam blinks out the gunk in his eyes and sits up with a groan, his back cracking from sleeping on hard wood. His eyes land on Gilly and Little Sam, both huddled up beside him. Little Sam is snoozing peacefully, Gilly is awake and watching him. Unable to look her in the eye, he turns over and looks outside their wheelhouse.

A massive garden lines the road, assorted with hundreds of colorful flowers. Their wheelhouse is heading toward winter, and soon these flowers would all die and be buried under snow. _I dread what it will look like at The Wall when I return someday. Hopefully Castle Black isn't snowed in._ Up the road a ways, over wide fields of green and gold, is an elaborate castle on a hill surrounded by a magnificent stone wall. _Highgarden…_

"We'll be arriving shortly." speaks a voice that startles Sam. He looks over at the opposite corner of their cramped confines and finds the assassin looking at him from the shadows. The white strip of hair swings back and forth beside his face as they rumble along, his dead eyes lingering on Sam, then the baby. "When we do, it will be best if we keep what happened in Oldtown secret from wandering ears."

Sam glares at Jaqen H'ghar, absolutely distrusting the man. _Everything that's gone wrong is because of him. I could be a Maester right now. Maester Marwyn and Archie would still be alive. All of the Maesters would be. But he killed them…_ It had taken Sam some hard thinking to piece together that not everything Jaqen told him had been truthful. _Why does he care about ending the Maester's lies and bringing back magic? He said it was for a girl, but that can't be the only reason. Why wait until now? There's something he's not telling me. I know it._

Jaqen smiles as though he can read Sam's mind, then asks, "Is there something Sam would like to say to this man?"

"Sure." Sam grumbles, "Why do you keep referring to yourself like that? Just say 'me' or 'I' like a normal person."

Jaqen's smile falters. "Is Sam trying to embarrass a man?"

"Sam's annoyed at hearing Sam's name all the time." Sam retorts, "Just say 'you' or is that against your assassin's code for some reason?"

Jaqen brushes his white bangs behind his ear and looks outside before replying, "Sam doesn't know what a man has lived through. When one speaks such as a man does, he gets used to speaking so. Same with any other language. If it bothers him, a man can refer to Sam as simply 'a man'?"

Sam shakes his head, baffled. "No, then I'd just get confused about which _man_ you're talking about."

"Who _are_ you?" Gilly asks the assassin, glaring at him as Little Sam buries his face deeper into her shoulder. "Who are you really? Why are you here with us? How do you know Sam? I have all these questions and you won't answer them."

As if considering her, Jaqen leans back and says, "A man has answered your questions the best he can."

"No, you haven't told me anything." Gilly growls. "Neither will Sam. You've both been ignoring me for a week. I want answers."

"Calm down, Gilly." Sam mutters, glaring at his feet. "Jaqen's not going to hurt us. He's going to help us stop the White Walkers."

"How?"

Sam feels stupid for what he's about to say, but goes ahead with it. "He can use magic. I saw him do it with my own eyes. He… he killed all the maesters and burned down the citadel because they've been hiding magic for years, making people believe it was never real, only a tall tale." Sam glances at Jaqen, still searching for any sign of emotion behind those dead eyes but finding none. "He was hired to kill me, but after learning more about me, I guess he decided he'd rather have my help?"

"This is true." Jaqen nods, his smile returning. "Sam was indeed quite peculiar. Never has a man met a Maester so eager to prove the existence of magic. This man is positive that Sam will be invaluable before long."

"Well, I wasn't a Maester, and I never will be now, thanks to you."

Gilly nudges Sam, forcing him to look her in the eye. She's smiling at him, and her smile is painfully beautiful. She says, "You once told me you always wanted to be a _wizard_ , not a maester. Now, maybe you _can_ be?"

"What? Me?" Sam can't help but laugh. "Gilly, there's no such thing as real wizards and I could never use magic, not like Jaqen can. The best I can do is try to understand it, but wielding it? I don't think so…"

"You could, if _he'd_ teach you." Gilly turns to Jaqen and says, "If you're going to travel with us, then you should do something helpful and teach Sam what you know."

But Jaqen shakes his head solemnly and whispers, "It takes years to learn. Too many."

 _What I want to learn is what he's hiding, but if I ask him outright he might just change his mind and kill us._ Sam glowers back down at his feet, confused and angry. "What is it you want from me, then? What do you need me for?"

Jaqen tilts his head and parts his lips, but before he can answer, the driver calls to them, " _We're here!_ " The assassin blinks, smiles, and promptly exits the rickety wheelhouse. Sam begrudgingly follows, helping Gilly out by taking Little Sam, whose eyes flutter open. The baby looks up at him, smiles, and gropes his nose with tiny fingers. Suddenly all of Sam's worries wash away, unable to stay negative with such an adorable creature in his arms.

Then Gilly catches his eye—and for the briefest of seconds, all Sam can see is her tied up on that bed with two lumbering, sweaty, naked men. The blinding rage he felt then ensnares his mind, and she notices when she tries to take Little Sam back. Sam tightens his hold over the baby and starts walking after Jaqen. They pay the wheel-house driver and face the massive, bronze gates of Highgarden. Roses are designed in the metal—thousands in all. The higher up the wall they go, the brighter they get, reflecting the sun off their petals. Sam winces as he looks up at them, shielding Little Sam's face with his palm so as not to blind him. The gates groan to life and part slowly, giving way to a long, winding road surrounded by thin, blossoming trees. The castle ahead has an inner wall where the Tyrell family reside. Highgarden's Commonfolk lived in lavish, colorful houses built into one-another. Some are taller than the trees with golden bridges arching over the cobblestone roads to reach the others. _This place is massive. Father always said he hated being here, but I never got to come here myself. It truly is a wonder..._

Some people give them curious stares as they walk through Highgarden's tightly packed streets. The market square is overwhelmed in a crowd of screaming people arguing with each other over prices. Sam looks up at Jaqen who seems to know where they're headed, and asks, "So who are we meeting here, exactly? More of your faceless friends?"

"Not quite." Jaqen chuckles, "A man has many friends, but none of them faceless. This friend is one a man has not visited in many, many years."

"Who is it? Or are you going to keep that from me too?"

As soon as the question leaves his lips, Jaqen stops and points up ahead toward the castle walls. Sam looks from Jaqen's finger, to the castle—and it dawns upon him what he means. "You can't be serious? The Tyrells? You're friends with them?"

"Just one."

When they arrive at the castle gates, Sam is positive they will be refused entry. The guardsman standing before them is taller than Jaqen, with muscles lining every inch of his body and three long scars over his left eye. Yet when Jaqen removes his cowl and looks him in the eye, no words are exchanged… The guard trembles and commands his fellow soldiers to open the gates, backing away from them as far as he can. Jaqen nods and slips his hood back on, beckoning Sam and Gilly to follow him.

Lady Olenna Tyrell is drinking out in her garden, surrounded by pastries and half-eaten dishes. Ten handmaidens surround her, moving frantically to clean the remains of her broken fast. The old woman's beady eyes land on Jaqen and she stops short of drinking her tea and slowly smiles. "My word. Is that really you? Or am I finally losing my mind?"

Jaqen H'ghar strides up to her table while Sam and Gilly stand quietly in the shadows, taking in the extravagant garden with their jaws unhinged. Olenna notices them, frowns, and asks Jaqen, "Who are they?"

" _No one_ _at all_." Jaqen says smoothly, "May a man sit?"

"Please. I'd hardly refuse you a seat after everything you've done for me over the years." Olenna takes a sip of tea and shoes her handmaidens away. "Enough, my flock of hens. Go relieve yourself of me. If I need help taking a shit, I'll call."

As they scurry out of the garden, Jaqen says, "May a man's friends sit?"

Olenna considers the request, then nods curtly. Sam awkwardly leads Gilly toward their table, blushing profusely. "Apologies, Lady Tyrell—Err, Lady Olenna—I-I'm Samwell Tarly and this is my wife, Gilly, and our son, erm, Sam. I'm just—I've never—"

" _Breathe_ , my boy." Olenna tuts, "If you have a heart attack, I fear not even all my handmaidens will be able to lift you out of here. _Tarly_ , you say? So, you're one of Randyll's sons, then?"

"He's my father." Sam grunts. Whenever he thinks of him, Sam's gut clenches painfully.

"He's dead." Olenna says casually, then pauses when she sees the look on Sam's face. "You haven't heard?"

"Dead? How? _When?!_ " Sam's legs go numb and he nearly trips on his way to his chair.

Olenna laughs and says, "Are you really a Tarly? He's been dead ever since the battle. What merciful stone have you been under? Have a seat, both of you. If I know this man as well as I used to, he wouldn't let you in here without good reason—especially without _my_ consent."

For the next hour, Olenna informs them of everything happening in the world over the last month. From Daenerys burning King's Landing to the ground, to Jon Snow being cast down by Sansa Stark in the north for being Targaryen. With so much being delivered at once, Sam hardly registers any of it. He sits there, listening to Olenna drone on and on, his ears throbbing, his mind racing. _My father is dead. My brother is dead. My mother… probably dead if she was in King's Landing, but nobody here would know that. I have to go there… I have to know if she's gone or… But then Jon, it sounds like he needs my help now more than ever if he's lost the north's support… According to Olenna, Jon's in the south now and he's gathered his own army, and they're heading straight for Dragonstone where Daenerys is. Is he following my advice? Is he really going to ask for her help? If he does, I have to be there—Dragonstone is where all the dragon glass is! With dragons there, we could forge more valyrian steel and—_

"If Daenerys is on Dragonstone then that is where a man shall go." Jaqen says, sitting with his hands crossed over his lap and his back straight as an arrow.

Olenna blinks at him and says, "You must have a death wish."

"Not particularly." Jaqen replies dismissively.

"Your home is lovely." Gilly speaks up, catching Olenna's eye. "It reminds me of Sam's home on Horn Hill."

" _Hah._ Don't compare that dull rock on a hill to Highgarden, my dear. It's insulting."

"I-I didn't mean to be insulting. Horn Hill was breathtaking. So is Highgarden."

" _Breathtaking_?" Olenna narrows her wizened eyes, "Where are you from, girl?"

"The North."

"Well that explains why you'd think Horn Hill is breathtaking... Forgive my rudeness, I'm not in the habit of meeting uninvited guests in my home after spending a week on the road. To what do I owe this reunion for, Jaqen?"

"Information." Jaqen says, "A woman such as you is more informed than most."

"And you knew I couldn't refuse you…" Olenna sighs. Sam frowns, wondering what exactly happened between these two in the past. "I've told you what I know. I'd appreciate it now if you'd kindly take this Tarly boy and his brood out of my home so I may enjoy my twilight years in peace."

"Wait…" Sam mutters, his fists tightening… he looks at Gilly, taking her beauty in so that he can remember her. Even now, as she sits beside him, looking him in the eye with her brow furrowed, all Sam can see is the way she looked on that bed in Oldtown… Sam turns away from her and asks Olenna Tyrell, "Can Gilly and our baby stay in Highgarden?"

At first, Gilly can't believe it. "Sam?"

Olenna's face stretches with surprises. "You're smarter than I gave you credit for, Tarly."

"If we're going to Dragonstone…" Sam mumbles, "It won't be safe for you or Little Sam."

"You don't know that." Gilly scowls.

" _She_ does." Sam bobs his head at Olenna, but is unable to look his love in the eye when he says it. "There's dragons there, and there might even be a battle. I can't risk you being there if things go wrong, Gilly. You'll be safe here."

"I have no problem with it." Olenna smiles, eyeing the child in Sam's arms. "I could always use another handmaiden, goodness knows, my flock has less brains put together than my oaf of a son. Your child would be well taken care of."

Gilly reaches out and grabs Sam by his knee. "Sam, is this about what happened before?"

"No, it isn't, and I never want to talk about that." Sam growls, his cheeks burning while his skull throbs, "This is about keeping my family safe."

"But who will keep _you_ safe?" Gilly asks, and Sam remembers her saying the same thing right before the battle at The Wall; when Sam had promised never to leave her side, Gilly fought to keep him with her down in that storage closet where it was safe. "Stay with me here. Stay with us, Sam."

"I _can't,_ Gilly. Jon needs me."

" _Then we're coming with you!"_

"No… you're not." Without looking her in the eye, Sam hands Little Sam over to her. The child stares at Sam in confusion and begins to cry. _Goodbye…_ Sam brusquely stands up, turns to Jaqen, and struggles to swallow the lump in his throat to say, "Let's go."

" _Sam!"_ Gilly yells, standing as well but Sam doesn't look back.

Jaqen bids Olenna farewell and follows Sam out of the garden. He can feel the assassin's eyes watching him, but Sam hardly cares. _I had to. I had to do it. I just… I couldn't even say goodbye. I'm too craven…_ Sam stops in the center of the market square, surrounded by hundreds of bustling small folk yelling and screaming at merchants. Gold litters the ground beneath his feet, gold that turns to shimmering puddles as Sam's eyes fill with tears. Jaqen appears at his side, and Sam wipes his face off quickly with his leather sleeve. _Maybe she followed me. Maybe she'll follow me and I can take it all back…_

Sam doesn't look over his shoulder until they reach the gates. He expects her to be there, holding Little Sam and running after them, and he hopes against his will that she is… but she's not.


	30. The Hound II

The Hound

"He's ugly as your mum, Steffon," grumbles the fat man in iron armor, the sigil of a kraken on his chest and cloak. He stands beneath a canopy build into the ruins of Moat Cailin beside another guard, watching as snow rains down from a black sky. "I don't like the way he's look'n at me. Why are we keeping this sorry sack alive?"

"Orders," mumbles the second Ironborn, "Beor says we have to."

"Beor isn't Euron." argues the fat one.

"Don't let him hear you say that."

"Beor's not here, he's in his tent with those frog-eating whores we snatched."

"Not much we can do about it, Kev." The guard glares at where Sandor Clegane sits, watching them. They imprisoned him inside while he was unconscious so he couldn't resist, and ever since, The Hound was forced to listen to these two morons chatter back and forth. _Bloody Ironborn. They think they're safe, but as soon as I get the chance, I'm wringing their heads together._

"I don't like how he's looking at me, Steffon. I think he wants to fight." grumbles the fat guard, striding over to the cage with his hands on his hips. His chapped lips crack as he grins down at their prisoner and gives the metal bars a kick. " _Hey!_ You got something to say to me, dog?"

The Hound leans back from his position on the ground, stiff as a board, and narrows his eyes. "You reek of shit."

"Come again? I didn't quite catch that." The fat man leans his ear in, clearly mocking him.

"I said you smell. Mind stepping away from the cage?"

"You got brass balls, talking to me that way, dog." The fat man growls, "How about this, from now on, whenever I need to take a shit, I'll do it right next to this cage. Yeah, I'll build a nice, fat mountain of shit just for you."

"Go ahead." The Hound chuckles, "Bend over and drop your trousers. Let's see how brass _your_ balls are."

The guard twitches and slams his boot against the cage again, rattling the snow that built up on top to come showering down over Sandor's hair. "Calm down, Kevan." says the other guardsman, Steffon, "If Beor finds you speaking with the prisoner, he'll have your head."

"Fuck Beor." swears Kevan, his back to Steffon, he doesn't notice—but Sandor does. From over the fat man's shoulder, he sees a tall, bearded man striding toward them. He's layered in thick, metal plating. His face is a mask of long, jagged scars, and he's blind in one eye. His black, wild hair is tangled together in a pony-tail, swinging down past his shoulders. He comes to a stop in the snow behind the guards as Kevan says, "If Euron were here, we wouldn't be following orders from Sellswords across the fucking sea. Beor might bend over for Daario's cock, but I will never—"

"Look behind you." The Hound grins, and Kevan's expression pales. He turns and trembles when he comes face to face with Beor. The Captain of the Ironborn wastes little time in removing the great hammer he keeps attached to his back, and gestures Kevan to come closer.

"B-Beor, I… this isn't what it seems." Kevan splutters, tears forming in his eyes. He lifts his hands up, his back pressed against Sandor's cage. For the briefest of moments, The Hound is tempted to reach through his bars and strangle him… but he resists, preferring to see how this goes down. "I-I was just taunting the prisoner, I-I didn't mean anything I said, _honestly_!" The hammer comes down over his skull, crushing his head into his shoulders with a thick, sickening _CRUNCH!_

The fat man's body shudders to the ground beside Sandor's cage, his helm compressed into his bleeding mess of a head. Captain Beor casts The Hound a dirty grimace before turning to face Steffon, who has backed up into a corner beside the ruins. "I-I told him not to! I warned him, Captain!"

" _Euron is dead!_ " Beor growls with gravelly fury, "If he were still alive, he'd be here, but those frog-eating fucks stole him away from us, right under our _fucking noses_. Fucking pathetic. The Greyjoy name is _dead!_ Yara and Theon Greyjoy burned alive in King's Landing, and Euron isn't coming back. I am not your Captain, understand this… I am your _King!_ If I hear any more treasonous filth from you people, this fat sack won't be the last to taste my hammer's metal. Make sure the rest of the men know why he died, and bury this fucker."

"Y-Yes, Ca— _Beor!_ Right away!" Steffon nods, immediately rushes over to hoist Kevan's corpse by his legs, and drags him off into the blizzard, leaving Beor alone with their prisoner.

"You're _the Hound_." Beor states in a much calmer voice, examining his blood-speckled fingers.

"I am."

"I've heard a great deal about you." Beor grins, revealing a row of golden teeth. "The great and fierce warrior from the south. Prince Joffrey's Loyal Dog… until you fled from Blackwater Bay with your tail between your legs."

"You know so much about me…" The Hound smiles, "Funny. I've never 'eard of you."

Beor's grin falls away and he steps closer to the cage. The Hound tenses, sensing his time for escape might be nearing. _He could have the keys on him right now. If I can get him close enough…_

"When Daario and I made our arrangement, I had no intention on keeping you or that Stark boy alive. I wanted to be the one who put an end to the famous Hound's life with my own hands. These incompetent men of mine were so easily distracted once they invaded that fucking fortress, they raped instead of bringing you to me as I'd ordered them… Euron's influence. Not mine. I should've gone in there myself, I should've, but those frog-eaters put up more of a fight than even I expected. Nearly lost my other eye to a spear flying at me." He steps even closer to the cage, only five feet away. _Still out of reach, just a little closer. Keep talking._ "By the time I found you, Daario had gotten to you first. Locked you up… but I have the keys. I could release you, and we could have a proper fight—hell, I could even give you a sword."

The Hound doesn't fall for it. He scoffs, tilting his head to his left, and says, "You'd have done it by now."

"If I wasn't getting paid tremendously to keep you alive, believe me, I wouldn't bat a fucking eye." growls Beor angrily, taking another step toward the cage, "One wrong move, dog, and I'll end you myself—"

The blast of a horn off in the distance catches Beor's attention. Sandor briefly glimpses the keys swinging from Beor's belt, and instinct compels him to reach for them—but Beor swiftly turns and starts treading away before The Hound can so much as flinch… That's when they hear the stampede of horses in the snow. Men shout at each-other, and the camp inside the ruins becomes lively again as hundreds get out from their tents to watch the approaching army down the hill. "Are we under attack?" asks the Hound, but Beor ignores him, sprinting out into the blizzard with the rest of the men. _Shit. I'm stuck in here. The only army in the north to be that big can be the Stark's… That means… could Sansa be here?_

Once they're closer, he can see the banner for House Stark waving on flags over the bobbing heads of the army. There's too many to count—and at the head is an elaborately designed wheelhouse with the flag bearing… _The Vale of Arryn. So, it is Sansa's army._ _I have to get her attention—she'll get me out of this cage, and I'll tell her everything that happened. She won't be too pleased when she finds out what these fuckers did._ His face nearly brushes the bars, breathing out long, white clouds with each exhale. The Hound was left with only rags for warmth, his armor and weapons stripped of him—even his boots. Soon his feet would succumb to frostbite, if help wasn't warranted.

Beor and Daario Naharis ride out to meet with the wheelhouse on horseback. The door lifts upward and a small man in black furs exits, then the door closes behind him. _I don't see her. Where is she?_

"Sandor Clegane?"

The voice startles him. Turning away from the commotion below, The Hound looks around and finds a beautiful woman in red looking him in the eye, right beside his cage. His eyes travel down her neck, past the strange, crimson ruby in her necklace, to the swell of her breasts. She's pale, and wearing hardly anything for warmth beyond the dress. Before he can react, she grabs the bars to his cage, leans in close, and whispers, "I don't have much time. You must _listen_ to me."

"What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in Winterfell with Reed?" The Hound grumbles, backing away from her, feeling an uneasy plummeting in his gut. _Something's not right about her… I only met her once, in Greywater, where she was burning Euron alive… I don't trust her._ "You know these men wouldn't be too happy if they knew what you did to their King."

"No, they would not. I'm trusting you to keep that a secret for me, but only if you can trust me with what I have to share." Melisandre says, quickly darting her eyes over her shoulder, checking to make sure they were alone. She then looks at him and says, "I've seen you, Sandor—in the flames, you're important for what's coming, what needs to happen."

"What the fuck are you on about?"

"I can't tell you everything, there's not enough time. For now, all you have to do is play along with him. Do you understand? Play along, and you'll survive this. I promise. Do whatever he asks of you." Melisandre whispers.

"Play along with what? Are you mad?" The Hound scowls.

" _Oi! Woman! What are you doing!?"_

Melisandre releases the cage and steps away as two Sellswords from Daario's company appear from amidst the snow storm, rushing under cover with swords drawn. Melisandre smiles seductively at them and says, "Apologies, Sers. No need for alarm."

"You're not supposed to be out here, M'Lady."

"And leave this prisoner unguarded?" Melisandre tilts her brow as the two men blush. "I was simply standing by until two men as brave as yourselves came by and relieved me of this filthy dog." Melisandre strides past them as they put away their blades, both of them watching her leave with perverse smirks. Her fiery glow disappears out in the blizzard, leaving the Hound dumbfounded. _She wasn't making any sense. That stupid sorceress, why'd she have to fill my head with all this nonsense? There was something about a fire… she saw me in a fire…_

Fear ripples down his spine just thinking about it.

Not long after this strange visit, the man who had arrived with the army appears before his cage with several others The Hound briefly recognizes to be Sansa's Bannermen. There's Lord Manderly, his white beard and black cloak tinged with snow, his nose red and blotchy. Lord Glover is beside him, huddled up under three cloaks, dark circles around his eyes. Lord Cerwyn is there as well, his beady gaze landing on The Hound's cage with a frown. Lastly is the one who'd arrived in the wheelhouse, ruler of the Vale, Lord of the Eyrie, Petyr Baelish.

"What is this, Baelish?" asks Lord Cerwyn, coming to a halt before the Hound's cage. "You never told us we'd find The Hound here."

"Was it necessary to share?" Petyr replies and, without blinking an eye, glares at Beor and Daario. "Why is he in a cage? I asked you to keep him safe and secure, not trapped like a wild animal."

"He _is_ a wild animal, My Lord." Daario grins, "Killed a few of my own men, and a few Ironborn as well. I think he thought we were there to kill him."

"Ah, a misfortune then. Where are the keys?"

"I have them." Beor growls.

Without saying a thing, Littlefinger lifts his hand up, and waits. Beor scowls, conflicted, before begrudgingly handing them over. Sandor stands up, silent as Petyr Baelish walks up to his cage, keys rattling in his fingers. He stops short of his door, looking the Hound in the eye. "Hello, Ser Clegane."

"I'm no knight."

"Ah, but you are, even if you do not realize it. You're Lady Sansa's Knight. You swore an oath to her, did you not?"

"Aye, I did, but I'm not her fucking knight."

"You are if you wish to be free from this cage, my friend." Littlefinger's smirk grows, and only he can see it. There's malice in his eyes—the kind only fearless men have. The Hound has faced more than his fair share on the battlefield to recognize the look. _He's not afraid of me. I'm nothing to him. What does he want from me?_

"What is this, Baelish?" scowls Lord Manderly now, puffing out his broad chest with disapproval. "Where is the Stark boy? You said he was here?"

"He is, and this man swore an oath to our Queen to keep her brother safe." Petyr says, "A man like this is invaluable. I can think of no better protector for our young Lord Stark. Isn't that right, Ser Clegane?"

"Fuck off." the Hound snarls.

Daario laughs, the Northern Lords appear unimpressed, but Petyr just smiles and holds the key out in front of the lock, tempting it… "Do you wish to continue to uphold your oath, Clegane? If so, say the word, and I'll release you."

 _Is this some sort of trick? I don't understand_ … "You people… You have a fucking sense of humor." The Hound sighs, "Why don't you tell these other noble Lords what you had these men here do to Greywater Watch? Where's Howland Reed? Why don't you tell them how your pretty boy put a dagger through his daughter's heart?"

"We're well aware of it." grunts Manderly, "Foul business, but it had to be done."

"Indeed." agrees Lord Glover, "They tried to murder the Queen as soon as her army was outside the gates. We sorted the mess out, and Baelish assured us he'd have men rescue Brandon Stark from Greywater by the time we arrived here. I didn't want to believe him, and I won't until I see the boy with my own eyes. Where is he?"

Littlefinger nods to Daario who sweeps off to go and get him. The Hound just laughs with disbelief. "Why would the Crannogmen try to kill Sansa?"

"Because she imprisoned Howland Reed for murdering Jon Snow." Petyr replies. "In fact, it was right here where it happened. They were waiting for Jon and the wildlings, ambushed them without a second thought. Truly a horrendous thing…"

 _That's what they said before. So, it's true. Jon Snow is dead and Howland was a traitor… I fucking knew it._ The Hound sighs, glaring down at his feet. "So… you'll let me go if I do what? Promise not to murder any of you?"

"That's a start." Petyr smiles, "In time, there will be more I may ask of you, but keeping Bran Stark safe is one of my highest priorities, and I need you to do that for me… for him."

"Fine."

A simple click and the cage unlocks. Petyr opens it for him, and Sandor slowly steps out… The snow is numb on his feet. Petyr leads him over to one of the tents, the Northern Lords following, and inside he's given a pair of boots and a cloak for warmth. A fire is roasting a delicious smelling, fat boar, as a pillar of smoke rises up through a hole in the tent's canopy. The Hound laps down a jug of strong ale, wiping his beard off with his wrist, then looks up to see Daario return with Bran in tow.

"Lord Stark!" cries Manderly as he, Glover, and Cerwyn all bend their knees and bow their heads in respect. Bran stares around the tent incredulously, his eyes meeting Sandor's.

"Lord Stark, I apologize for the conditions these savages left you in." Littlefinger says, bending his knee to the boy. "Please join us by the fire and have something to eat."

"What is this? Where's Sansa?" Bran asks.

"In Winterfell, My Lord, where she's safe." Lord Manderly says with a proud smile. "We are here on her behalf. It is a great relief to see you alive and well. I had my fears, but… Lord Baelish, I'm impressed."

Petyr just smirks without a word. Bran asks, "My Lords, these men have murdered Howland Reed's daughter—right in front of me! I saw it with my own eyes! They captured me against my will and—"

"They saved you, Lord Stark." Lord Glover interrupts, "The Reeds are traitors, they murdered your brother in cold blood on their way to Winterfell."

"I won't believe that. I can't." Bran says shakily, tears in his eyes now as he realizes what was happening. "Lord Reed… he wouldn't do that…"

"I'm afraid he did." Petyr sighs, "He admitted it in court, before all of us. Lady Brienne says Jon was resurrected… but that, of course, is a lie designed to comfort Lady Sansa's grief."

"Howland also said you planned it with him." grumbles Glover, to all of their surprise. "Am I the only one who remembers?"

"He's right…" Manderly mutters suspiciously.

Petyr chuckles and says, "Our Queen dismissed the accusation. _Of course_ Lord Reed would try and take me down with him. The word of a murderous mad man has no meaning to me, nor should it with any of you."

 _He's lying._ The Hound can see it in the way he smiles, the way he looks between all the Lords like he's better than them, smarter than them… _You won't fool me, Baelish. I'll protect Bran, even if it means protecting him from you._

"Eat, Lord Brandon. We've released the Hound and he's agreed to uphold his oath to protect you. We leave within the hour. Have the men ready the horses. We ride for the south, for King's Landing, and war."

"You're not bringing that boy into a war." The Hound growls, "I won't allow it."

"Agreed." Petyr grins, "I have another destination in mind for Lord Stark, a place to keep him safe and out of any harm's way. It will take a while to get there, but the Vale of Arryn is the safest place in Westeros."

"I'm taking him back to Winterfell." The Hound argues, "He should be with his sister, he'll be safer there."

"Afraid not, Winter is here and it's getting worse. Half our horses died just getting here. If you travel for a week, maybe two, you might get halfway there before your horse falls. Then you'll be stuck traveling alone with a crippled boy. Lady Sansa instructed me to find her brother and keep him safe, so trust me when I say I have Lord Stark's best interests at heart."

"I say we let Bran decide that." The Hound growls.

Bran gulps, his face pale as he looks between Littlefinger and the Hound… "I…I have to find Jon. I have to know if he's dead or… or if he's alive. If he's alive, then he's going after Daenerys, and if that's where you're all going then…"

 _Damn it, kid._

"Then we're going with them."


	31. Brienne III

Brienne

The forest is snowy white, yet the long night's shadow blankets everything in darkness. Brienne's horse can't go on much longer, she can sense him growing weak and famished, or perhaps Brienne is just deflecting how she feels on her steed. They'd fled Winterfell three nights ago, without food or water to fill their bellies, and only the frosty wind to warm them while they slept. They tried lighting a fire, but the blizzard was too harsh, exposed out here in the wilderness. No matter how long they tried, no fire would last in this cold. They'd found a small clearing near a frozen river to make camp for an hour. Every time they stopped, Brienne bent a knee and listened for the sounds of the dead chasing them…

Podrick limps over and sits beside her in the snow, panting with exhaustion. Brienne glances down his leg where, just underneath his boot, she can imagine his festering, frostbitten foot. _All this running is hard on him. He needs the horse, or he won't make it_. "Pod, stay here and watch Reed." she mutters, standing up slowly.

"Where are you going, m'lady?" Pod asks, his eyes wide with fear.

"To hunt for something— _anything_. We need to eat, and the horse needs to eat…"

"No." It's Jaime who says this, crunching through the snow as he finished tying to horse to a tree. "You stay, Brienne. I'll go. If those things find us, you're the only one here who can fight them."

"You can fight." Brienne argues.

Jaime sneers and lifts his bandaged stump up, "Not like you can, not anymore. We only have one sword on us, best you keep it. I might be able to take out one or two, but any more than that and I'm as useless as Howland Reed." He casts the old man a dirty glare. Howland is on his knees, far away from earshot, huddled up under a tree and sobbing like a frightened child.

"Have you ever hunted for wild animals or berries?" Brienne asks Jaime sourly.

"Of course I have…" Jaime mutters, not quite meeting her eye. "I'll be back before long…"

Brienne watches him trudge off through the wilds and disappear under the cloak of darkness. _If he abandons us… no… Jaime won't just abandon us… he has more honor than that… Or does he? Do I truly even know him anymore? He lied to me so he could try and murder Sansa… Sansa… Oh, Sansa…_ Brienne glares furiously down at the snow, hating herself all over again. _Who am I to question his honor when I have none? I betrayed Sansa and left her to die all alone... for what? For Jaime, who lied, and Howland, the one who tortured me for weeks? I should've rescued Sansa. If I had any trace of honor, I would have… I failed you, my Lady… I'm so sorry._

"Don't worry, I'm sure he'll come back with a nice, juicy hare…" Pod says.

"What good will that do? We cannot light a fire out here." Brienne grumbles.

"Where there's a will, there's a way, m'lady." Pod grins, sounding hopeful.

Howland sniffs loudly from across the clearing, wiping his red nose with the sleeve of his cloak. Brienne watches him for a while… then crosses the length of their enclosure to him wordlessly. The old man glances up at her, his hideous, grey-scale infected face contorted with confusion and despair. "You should feel ashamed of yourself, you know." Brienne says, "This is the real Howland Reed, a sniveling cry-baby who can't even help himself. I should've left you to rot in that dungeon."

"You must be thrilled, seeing me this way." Howland mumbles, cowering from her, "Go ahead. I know I'm craven, I know it."

"You're more than that. You're a despicable, vile, monster." Brienne's fists clench, wanting to hit him but holding herself back. "I'll never forgive you for what you did to me, what you made me do just to escape…"

"I don't care." Howland growls, "All I care about is finding my daughter."

"Oh, we'll find your daughter, and when we do I'll be sure to tell her the truth about her father."

Brienne's about to storm off, but then she notices her weathered, steel sword lying next to Pod amidst roots, and she remains standing there… before glaring down at Howland and asking, "What happened to the sword you stole from me? What happened to Oathkeeper?"

" _Sword_?" Howland blinks up at her, as if trying to decipher Dothraki, then says, "You mean that Valyrian one? It's with Littlefinger. He wanted it, so I gave it to him…"

Brienne grits her teeth, her head pounding. "Why would Littlefinger want it?"

"To sell to the highest bidder, I assumed. I have no idea. That man is a lying, back-stabbing little—" Brienne's boot rushes up to meet his jaw, and Howland reels from the blow, slamming head-first into the tree. Blood juts down his nose and he howls with pain. Brienne kneels over him, wrapping her gloved fingers around his throat and squeezing with everything she has. Podrick screams at her from a hundred miles away, but Brienne can't stop. All she sees is red, all she feels is rage.

Eventually Pod grabs her and pulls hard enough. She lets Howland go and stands up, sweating and panting for breath. Howland shudders in the snow, his face hardly recognizable under all that blood. He moans and gasps for help, but Brienne turns around and heads back over to her sword, collapsing on her knees.

"Brienne…" Pod whispers behind her. "Are you alright?"

"She's dead, Pod… She's dead, and it's my fault…" Brienne sniffs, holding back tears. "I should've saved her. I swore an oath to her, and instead we fled like cravens. I left her to die. I don't deserve to live."

"Don't say that, Brienne." Pod kneels down beside her, wincing as he does from the pain in his foot. He clamps a hand over her armored shoulder, and it's this contact that breaks her will. Her eyes burn as tears overwhelm her. Pod says, "If we'd gone up to her tower, we would've had to fight our way out. We would've died, Brienne. Even I know that much…"

"I should've died protecting her." Brienne whispers as the tears on her cheeks turn to ice. She glares up at Pod, helpless, and asks, "Why did I save Jaime?"

Pod just shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know, Brienne… perhaps it was my fault for suggesting it. You'd have gone inside the castle if I hadn't…"

"No. It was my decision and mine alone… I... I didn't have time to think, I just…" _It was because he rescued me once, from that bear in the pit… He rescued me when he didn't have to. When I remembered that, I couldn't face the thought of leaving him behind to rot in a dungeon…_ "I have no honor. You deserve better, Pod."

"You have more honor than any man or woman I've ever met. If not for you, I would have died back there. Jaime would have died. Even Howland, as much as he might deserve it, would've died. I'm proud to be your Squire, no matter what happens." Pod says to her, and she can't help but smile a little at that. "Those things, _they're_ the ones without honor. They're the ones who attacked Winterfell and forced us to flee. We didn't have a choice, Brienne, but because you saved us, we can still make a difference. We can warn everyone."

"I don't deserve you." Brienne says, rubbing the ice from her cheeks with her knuckles.

Before Pod can reply, there's a howl on the wind that causes her hairs to stand on end. She looks up into the endless darkness that surrounds them, fearing the worst… but all is silent. "Must've been a wolf…" mutters Pod, "Hopefully Jaime is safe…"

Under the long night, the quiet darkness feels eternal. Brienne loses track of how long they sit there. Howland passes out under his tree while Pod tries to get some shut-eye beside her. Brienne remains awake, listening to the groaning trees and the breathing winds… until a crunch in the snow alerts her, and she picks up her sword—

"It's me." Jaime says, approaching them with a leather satchel in his hand. He's walking sluggishly, and collapses in the snow beside her and Pod with a grunt. "Took me a while, but I managed to find some wild berries. They're frozen solid, but I believe we can still eat them." He opens the satchel and shows her what he'd found. Brienne examines them for a moment before deciding they're safe, waking Pod up so that they can share. They eat like starving ravens, even though the berries are hard as rocks, and when all but three berries are left, she feeds the rest to their snow-washed horse. Howland watches them eat with a scowl. _You're not getting a damn thing, you murderous traitor. Keep staring all you want. If you want to eat, you're going to have to find your own damn food._

"We should keep moving." Brienne mutters when they're finished. "It's not safe out here."

"Where can we go?" Jaime asks her, unfamiliar with the northern terrain. "The Neck is miles from here."

"There's a farmer a few days south from here. He took me in after I was released from Greywater Watch. He has children with him, and he'll remember me. If we can, we should go there and warn him of the dead. He has horses and a carriage to ride in. He'll help us, I know it."

"Then let's move as fast as we can." Jaime says as Pod struggles to mount their horse. Brienne helps him up, then turns to Howland, who remains where he is in the snow.

"You want to stay here?" Brienne asks him sharply.

Howland shakes his head and slowly climbs to his feet. "Lead the way." he says without hiding his contempt.

They travel in silence. Pod rides the horse, bundled up under a fur blanket. Jaime leads the horse on foot with a rope, glaring ahead through the low-hanging branches obscuring the path. Only the snow crunching beneath their feet marks their journey, and the footprints they leave in their wake makes Brienne nervous. If not for the abandoned wagon lying in a ditch yesterday, they would've frozen to death by now. Jaime had left Winterfell in only small-clothes, as did Howland; and neither Brienne nor Pod were prepared for winter travel when they were forced to flee the castle. _That wagon saved our lives, thank the Gods_. Whoever was riding inside was long gone when they arrived. Jaime suspected a trap, so Brienne inspected the wagon with her sword drawn. Inside they found only clothing; whoever this wagon belonged to must've been a trader. Now Brienne has a warm cloak to keep her face from the chill. Only her nose suffers the cold, harsh winds.

"I-I can't…" wheezes Howland Reed. Brienne shoots him a glare as the old man collapses to his knees. "I can't go on."

"Stay here then." Brienne growls, refusing to stop.

"Brienne, we can't just leave him like that." mutters her Squire.

"Let me ride the horse." Howland grunts, "I can't walk anymore. I can't feel my feet, and my old knees—without my cane, they're useless. Please, I'm begging you."

Brienne snaps, "And watch you ride off without us? I think not. Besides, Podrick has more need of her than you do."

"Then I'll ride next to him!" Howland moans, tears in his eyes. "I-I can hold onto his back!"

"I don't think she can handle two riders right now." Pod mutters, red-cheeked and looking furious with himself for some reason. "Brienne, Howland can have her—I can still walk, just for a little while."

"Absolutely not."

"But Brienne, he's—"

" _No_ , Pod!"

"Everyone shut up." Jaime hisses, coming to a sudden stop with his stump up in the air, gesturing for them to quiet down. There's a piercing look of urgency in his eyes that captures Brienne's attention at once, and she draws her steel. Up ahead, in the depth of the woods, they all hear it at the same time and their bodies tense with fear; the scraping, cackling whispers of the dead—like hundreds of tree branches cracking at once. _They're all around us!_ Brienne realizes, panic striking her. Behind her, Howland moans, "No, not like this! I-I can't die like this!"

" _Shut up_!" Jaime snarls, sweat turning to ice on his forehead. "They might not've seen us yet."

"We have to keep moving." Brienne whispers to him and Jaime nods. Over his shoulder a pair of blue eyes blink into existence… Brienne has time to yell and push Jaime aside as the ugly creature comes sprinting through the bushes at them. He's a skeleton in black rags, his bony arm up over his head, a flail spinning. The spiked ball collides with the side of Brienne's sword as she deflects its attack. The thing roars in her face before Brienne's fist ploughs through it and out the other end of its skull. It's corpse goes limp against her, pushing her back to a tree. Jaime yanks it away just as three more pairs of blue, burning eyes appear. "Just run!" screams Brienne to Jaime as their horse shrieks and rears up on her hind legs. Pod wails, struggling to keep himself aboard, and for this brief second, Brienne turns away from the dead and witnesses Howland Reed's eyes roll up into the back of his head. His disfigured body crumples to the snow. Brienne thinks he must've been killed, _but then why is there no wound on his body to show for it?_ Before she can think too hard about it, one of the wights comes for her with a sword of his own. This one is recently dead, with flesh still hanging loosely from his bones. _He's wearing Stark armor, which means he was one of the men fighting in Winterfell when these things invaded_. Grunting as she lifts her sword, the two of them clash. Blue eyes empty of emotion glare into hers, inches apart. She smells the rotten decay in his breath, reminding her of the pit Howland had trapped her inside. _It smells just like it_. She pushes with all her might—then swings again before the monster has a chance to retaliate. Her steel cuts through his bone like it's made of parchment and his head goes flying off into the branches above.

"What's wrong with Reed?" she hears Podrick ask before he screams. His horse bucks like mad—tossing her head back and forth, eyes bulging as if from pain, she shrieks with madness and kicks Podrick off of her back. Brienne has time to look back and watch her Squire land heavily on his injured leg in the snow before the horse spins around, tugs the rope from Jaime's hand, kicks up snow in Brienne's face, and takes off running headlong into the vast dark woods.

 _Shit!_ Brienne runs to Pod even as more of the wights appear all around them. Podrick rolls over, gripping his leg, agony stretched across his face. Brienne kneels down beside him, lying the sword in the snow to scoop her hand underneath his knees and shoulders. "Hold still, Pod, I'm going to have to carry you."

"No! I can run, m'lady!" Podrick yells, fear plain to behold in his eyes. "I won't slow you down!"

"Shut up, Pod! I'm not leaving you behind!"

"Brienne!" Jaime yells, "We have to go right now! They'll be on us in seconds!"

Brienne tries to lift her Squire—but Podrick shoves her with both hands against her breastplate, pushing her away. _Gods damn it all!_ Brienne wants to yell at him, but Pod is already getting up, crying as he hobbles on both feet. She notices he's picked up her sword…

"You can't run, you can hardly walk!"

" _I know_ , m'lady…" Pod smiles through his pain, "We don't have time to argue about this. You have to go, and I can't follow."

 _No. This isn't happening._ "Pod…"

"Let me do this for you…" Pod mumbles, rubbing the tears out of his eyes and grinning up at her with genuine joy. "Let me do this as your Squire."

The screech of a wight leaping through the trees follows this request, and Brienne watches as a long-haired, blue-eyed demon plunges an axe through Howland Reed, shearing his head in half. Jaime comes out of nowhere with a rock in his hand and knocks it into the dead man's face. It stumbles backward, abandoning the axe exposed in Howland's skull. Jaime rips it out by the handle, no longer defenseless, and yells, " _Brienne!_ Right now!"

" _I'm not leaving you behind!"_ Brienne shouts in Podrick's face, her vision watering. She wants to say so much more, she wants to scream and pound Pod into the dirt so she can carry him unconscious, she wants to tell him how much he means to her—but the look in Pod's eye tells her none of it would matter. _His mind is made up._

Jaime's hand closes around Brienne's. She's being dragged to her feet. She can't see. She can't think. Podrick slowly turns around with the sword in both hands, and it's the last time Brienne ever sees her Squire's face again. She screams his name and struggles to free herself, but Jaime's hand won't let go. She reaches but they're already too far away. Podrick faces the darkness, surrounded by hundreds of blue eyes…

Then he's gone.


	32. Davos II

Davos

Sitting with his back against a tree on a hill overlooking the Dothraki horde, Lords Mallister and Edmure's army, and the Brotherhood without Banners; Davos Seaworth is hunched over parchment on his knee, furiously contemplating the words he'd finished writing moments ago. As his eyes bounce along the page, he remembers Shereen's lessons in that dungeon; _lessons from a lifetime ago, it feels. Oh Shereen, if only you were here now. If only Stannis… Stop it, Davos. No sense in thinking these things... Jon isn't Stannis. Stannis never would've bargained with the Tully's, he would've demanded Edmure and Mallister to bend the knee or face his wrath. Stannis never asked for help, he commanded it. Jon doesn't have it in him to do that… yet somehow, with just words and promises, Jon has earned their support. He's even earned the Dothraki's aid. I doubt Stannis would've been capable of that. If not for Jon's blood, would the Dothraki have cared? Or would they have struck him down?_

Ever since the Dothraki joined their ranks, attitudes were tense among the men. Juugo, the man who killed their Khal, was a skinny, weak boy with no experience leading men—yet when he drove his axe into their Khal's neck that night, the rest of his people declared him their new Khal. It was Juugo who agreed to join Jon's ranks, but not all of the Dothraki agreed. Some saw his usurpation as cowardly and fled from their camp the next night with two thousand others, all on horses. Davos, Edmure, and Mallister all expressed to Jon that he should send men after them—but Jon refused. "Let them be for now. We have larger concerns at hand. They're heading southward, which is out of our way." Juugo liked this, saying he understood why his people were leaving, and any more bloodshed between them would only delay their vengeance against Daenerys.

 _I don't trust Juugo or any of these barbarians, but Jon is right. We need them fighting for us, not against us… and it looks like we're on the brink of another war. Just like Stannis… only this time, we're fighting dragons._ Davos shutters, and not from the cold.

In his hand, the words on the parchment read:

 _Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm; my name is Jon Targaryen, The King of the North, Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and the Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, a throne you've destroyed. I will be arriving on Dragonstone in three days and I request an audience with Your Grace, to answer for your crimes against Westeros. I will discuss terms in person, and not to a raven. I'm sure you'll understand. If you agree and wish to parlay, send a single longship out to meet us in the water off your shores. I won't bring my army to the island, they will stay on Crackclaw Point, as a sign of good faith on my end. As we are related by blood, I hope we can reach a peaceful resolution._

These were the words Jon instructed with him earlier, and it has taken some time for Davos to get every word just right. _I must've read this thing a hundred times and I'm still afraid to send it. This letter… If Daenerys is as mad as they say, she'll read these words and see it's an act of war. She'll know Jon wishes to dethrone her. What if she sends dragons out to meet us on the water instead of a boat and we all burn alive like the fools we are? Gods, help me…_ It was only last night they heard news that Daenerys had landed on Dragonstone and declared herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Davos remembers Jon's face when he heard the news, expecting to find rage and instead finding a strange smile. Jon said, "She can call herself Queen all she likes, it doesn't change a thing. All she's done is built me a throne."

 _Stannis would've said something along those lines. They're more similar to each other than he thinks. Something about Jon has changed since he died. He doesn't smile anymore, and when he does, it's a grim smile… I don't like it._ Davos climbs to his feet, stretches, and trudges through snow over to the raven cages nearby. The raven, white as milk of the poppy, glares up at him through the steel bars. Davos unlocks the cage and ties his letter to its leg, his spine cracking from having to bend over. He lifts the bird up in his hands and tosses her into the wind. She flaps, nearly collides with the ground—then steadies herself inches from the snow, soaring up, up, and away into the night sky for the east…

Thoros is gambling by a fire surrounded by men from all camps, laughing and drinking. The Priest is singing " _The Dornishman's Wife_ " when Davos finds him. Juugo is gulping down a tankard of northern ale while his blood-riders glower at the Tully soldiers with distrust. The Tully soldiers don't hide their dislike for the brown, muscle-bound men in their midst either. Only Thoros appears unconcerned with the divide, calling for more wine and meat. Davos claps the drunk old fool on his shoulder with his disfigured hand, snatching his attention for a moment. Thoros lifts his brow at him before returning to his drink with a scoff.

"We need to talk." Davos grunts over the crackling fire warming his face, " _Now_."

"Your age makes you blind, old man; Otherwise you'd see I'm busy."

Davos rolls his eyes, saying, "And you must be drunk, or you'd realize we're the same age."

"Then as fellow old men, why don't you join us for a drink?!"

 _I don't have time for this._ "If you care about Jon Snow's success, then come with me now, before I change my mind."

Thoros's eyes glint up at him, the firelight dancing in his pupils, before he smirks and swallows the rest of his ale. "Aye, you twisted me arm."

Davos takes Thoros away from the commotion, into the dark, white woods. Without Thoros there, the camp's mood darkens considerably. Thoros swaggers as he follows Davos to a clearing by a horse pen. Davos turns around and faces him, glaring from under his snow-ridden cloak. The wind howls in their ears, cold as ice on their faces. Davos says, "I need to know what you can do."

"What do you mean?"

"Your… your _magic_." Davos blinks, feeling stubborn. "You're a believer in the Lord of Light, and you say you've seen his visions in the fires, well prove it to me. Right here, right now. I know what your kind can do. I've met a woman who spouted the same shit to me every time I saw her. Then she showed me what she could do… and ever since, I've seen more and more that magic is _real_. Jon Snow is alive because of your Lord, there's no doubt in my mind anymore… but there's _more_ you can do, isn't there?"

"More than bringing back lads from the dead? Aye. There's more…" Thoros squints at him behind rosy cheeks. "Are you looking to convert to my religion, Ser Davos?"

"No, I wish to understand it is all. I've seen magic change the shape of wars. The Red Woman unleashed a demon on Lord Renly, and Wildfire burned Stannis's fleet in Blackwater Bay. Magic wins wars, and if we're going into battle with someone with dragons, we need magic on our side just to hope to stand a chance."

"I thought you hated me." Thoros says with a toothy grin.

"I despised the Red Woman, and I let her influence cloud my judgement of you," Davos admits to him, "We have to work together. Jon needs our help if he's going to win the throne and rule Westeros. You're a drunk, and I don't trust you, but Jon needs you."

"I'm afraid I must disappoint you again," sighs Thoros, "I met her myself, y'know, not long ago. When she learned I had the gift to resurrect my friend, she didn't believe me. She thought it was beyond possibility. We all have our own special talents, I suppose."

"I was there when she brought back Jon from the dead." Davos grunts, "She was able to do something even she didn't believe possible. If she can do it, then so can you."

"What exactly do you expect me to do, piss out a demon from my cock?"

"There must be some way of defending ourselves from dragonfire—I don't know, some sort of shield or…"

"What you're suggesting is magic only ever spoken of in the lands of Asshai." Thoros mutters, losing his cheery face for one of morose intensity. "If such a spell exists, I don't know it."

"What do you know?" Davos asks, "Tell me."

"Blood magic." Thoros replies, "I can light a sword on fire, but aside from playing in a mummer's farce, that won't help in a fight with a dragon. I can bring back someone I care about from the dead, as long as my heart is true… and I can hear the Lord's words in my mind, whispering secrets, as long as I stare long and hard into a fire. That's all I can do, Ser Davos… as I said, I can't be of much help to you."

The drunk priest starts to turn around, maybe to head back to camp, when Davos grabs him by the scruff of his collar. "You have to know _something?!_ You must know _more?!_ "

"Unhand me, would you?" Thoros grins, and Davos smells the booze in his breath.

"If we sail into Dragonstone undefended, all of us—Jon included—will be vulnerable to dragonfire raining down on us. Even if Jon survived, all of us—everyone single one of us—would burn alive before we ever reached the island's shores." Davos remembers the wildfire's roar as it blew up from Blackwater Bay's surface and sheared Stannis's fleet apart, the brilliant green light that blinded him followed by a gust of white hot air that punched him overboard. Never again does Davos want to experience a hell like that…

"If that happens then so be it." Thoros mutters, a dark edge to his tone that Davos had never heard from the man before. He squints dourly at him and says, "When Beric died I stopped caring about my life. Either we burn, or we don't. What the Lord wills, we cannot change." Thoros turns and walks away, his feet crunching quietly through two feet of snow. Davos trembles from the cold, watching him go…

"You said you can light your sword on fire?"

Thoros stops, and Davos rushes toward him, eyes wild as an idea forms in his head.

"Aye, I can."

"What about two swords?" Davos asks, "Three swords? Ten?"

"I've never tried." Thoros admits, "It requires blood, and there's only so much blood I have to spend."

"What if every man in this army paid blood to light their blades? Could you perform this… this blood magic?"

"It would take time—days even, to light every single soldier's sword. I'd need quite a bit of ale just to get through it with my mind in tact." Thoros grins, "But that's assuming I can even do this. What is the point? Flaming swords are flashy, but fire cannot harm a dragon."

"No, but when the King of the North arrives on Crackclaw Point, The Queen will see the rightful king's army on her horizon—thousands in all, their swords of fire lighting the dawn for all of Dragonstone to witness. We don't need every soldier's sword burning, just enough to make her think we have magic on our side."

Thoros sees the light in Davos's eyes as he explains this to him, and when he's finished, the old drunk priest looks like he's considering the plan. Arms crossed, head bowed, Thoros sighs a stream of white fog out his nose and says, "Alright, Seaworth, I'll see what I can do."


	33. Tyrion III

Tyrion

"—When Lord Eddard was sentenced to death, I knew I'd screwed up." says Varys lightly as he settles into a chair beside Tyrion. They're on Tyrion's bedroom balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay to the south and Crackclaw Point to the west. "I underestimated Joffrey's malevolence, his desire for blood, and just how far his madness had spread. Something to do with being born of incest, perhaps, though the Princess Myrcella and King Tommen both seem relatively normal when compared to Joffrey. I put too much faith in the boy."

"How was any of that _your_ fault?" Tyrion asks curiously, frowning at his bald friend over his cup of Arbor Red, breathing in the scent of his beverage.

Varys just sighs and says, "We all play our own parts in someone's schemes, even when we don't even realize it. At the time, I was… less than helpful for Lord Stark. I visited him in his cell once, tried to convince him to play a part much like I was playing a part—so that he might escape with his life… but Eddard Stark refused. He'd already accepted his death. A soldier's death, he called it. A fool's death, I judged, and left him there, resigned to his fate. If I'd helped him like I'd helped you escape, who knows what sort of world we'd be living in right now; who might be alive still, and who might be long dead?" his eyes glisten as he speaks, and Tyrion can tell Varys speaks from his heart when he says, "I lay awake at night obsessing over it… what might have been if I'd only interfered just once… Instead I hid in the shadows and watched helplessly as Joffrey ordered for Stark's head… I remember running up to the young King and yelling louder than I've ever yelled in my life—but over the roar of that crowd, I went unheard. Since that day, I knew my time serving your family would be my downfall. When we first became friends, I merely wished to use you to serve my own purpose. I had no quarrels with betraying you if the time came… but when you were on trial, and I saw the look on your face when I gave my testimony against you…"

"You felt bad? I never would've guessed."

"I was playing my part… and I'd never felt more disgusted with myself for doing so. If it helps you forgive me, I was already plotting your escape."

"Well I can't hold it against you then, can I?" Tyrion grins, handing Varys a cup of wine to drink from. "It's _ancient_ history, Varys. Let's move away from such _grim_ conversations and _relax_ , shall we?"

"I'd enjoy a night off." Varys smirks, eyeing his cup with intrigue. "However, I did not come here to drink with you, my friend."

"Then you better settle in because _I'm_ drinking." Tyrion mutters.

"Are you sure that's wise? Our Queen has asked me to…" Varys grimaces and whispers, "Well, she isn't very impressed with how much wine you indulge…"

Tyrion pauses, lowers his cup, and glares suspiciously up at him. "Wait… Dany asked _you_ to spy on _me_?"

Varys leans back smiling, waves his hand, and says, "I'm hardly spying on you, my Lord. I'm just here to convince you to sober up. I must say, I quite agree her. You're drinking has become unhealthy and… well, hard to watch."

"Preposterous." Tyrion grumbles, setting his drink down on the little dragonglass table beside him (though it's still within reach) as if to say he's had enough. "Tell the Queen my habits don't inhibit my performance as Hand, rather they enhance them."

"Tell her yourself." Varys shrugs, "You drink more than five men twice your size every other night."

 _More like every night._ Tyrion taps his finger impatiently on his knee, eyeing his wine. "It's not a problem, I promise. Can we let this go now?"

"There is a matter I would like to discuss, and it concerns Littlefinger." Varys scowls, "With winter upon us, I haven't heard word of his movements in quite some time and it's worrying me. I fear what he might be thinking, right now, every moment that goes by…"

"There's only so much we can do… What about him is so frightening to you?" Tyrion asks.

"He's crueler than I can possibly imagine." Varys gulps as he says this, but keep his eyes dead set on Tyrion's as he continues, "and willing to do anything to get what he wants, even if it means the death of us all. I once considered him my equal… but I'm ashamed to admit he's far better at this game than I will ever be."

"Don't sell yourself short." Tyrion says, "You're the Master of Whispers, _The Spider!_ No one knows what you're really up to, what you're really thinking, and that's why I love your company. It's so boring when you can tell what someone is thinking, it makes it so obvious when they lie to you—but with you, I can never tell."

Varys smiles warmly at him, but he never blinks. "Why thank you, Tyrion. That's good to hear you say."

"If Littlefinger is as scary as you make him sound, then I can have… Oh…" _Shit. I was about to say I'd have Greyworm send scouts north to look for his location…_ Tyrion grunts awkwardly, recalling Missandei's moans during his funeral, louder than the fire that consumed Greyworm's corpse…

"Something wrong?"

"I was just thinking of Greyworm. I need to find a new commander for the Unsullied…"

"I have someone in mind."

"Who?"

Varys tilts his brow at him, as if stunned Tyrion couldn't guess. "Theon Greyjoy, of course."

Tyrion leans back and barks out a single shout of laughter, reaching unconsciously for his cup of wine. "Somehow I doubt the Unsullied would listen to someone who isn't their own."

"What makes you say that?"

"Those men—they _grew up_ together, torn from their mother's bosom to work as slaves. They're all brothers, the Unsullied. Theon isn't one of them. He might be a eunuch, but he's never had to endure what they've endured _together_. They'll never accept him as their _Commander_ after losing Greyworm, a man they've trusted enough to follow into battle for their entire lives. I'm not even sure _I_ trust Theon right now. Have you seen the lad? He's losing his mind and it's only a matter of time before Daenerys realizes we have no use for him and feeds him to her dragons."

"Is she truly that unstable?" Varys asks him quietly.

"No, I'm exaggerating." _I'm not so sure after what she did to Kinvara…_

As if reading his mind, Varys says, "After what she did to the Red Woman… I had no love for her, I loathed her in fact; but to watch her be ripped apart by those… creatures…"

"It was an impulsive move on her part…" Tyrion admits, "I would have preferred we keep her alive to interrogate but Dany wouldn't hear of it."

"Are you sure she isn't unveiling signs of madness?" Varys asks him, "Be honest with me, now. You might not be able to tell when I'm lying, but I always know when someone is lying to me—especially when they're as drunk as you are."

Tyrion laughs, setting his drink back down on the table before it can touch his lips. "I swear to you, Varys—she's not like Joffrey. She's wise, and kind, and has a _good_ heart when it comes down to it. She wants to make the world _better_ , not tear it apart. She cares about the people, and she cares about doing what's right for Westeros. I've never known a woman I could trust as much as her."

"You sound like you _admire_ her."

" _Of course,_ I admire her." Tyrion looks down, avoiding Varys's gaze. _Quickly, now_ — "She's accomplished so much in such a short time. She's the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains… You knew, somehow, that I'd join her, didn't you?"

"I knew before Joffrey's death that you'd join her, but it wasn't until you were arrested that I saw the opportunity to make it happen." Varys says with a sly smirk, "I've been keeping watch over Daenerys since she started. Jorah Mormont told me everything about her… the way his words described her on that parchment… I could tell he was falling for her… much in the way I can tell _you're_ falling for her." Tyrion slowly lifts his glare up at him, and Varys returns it with an innocent smile. "Am I wrong?"

"You've been talking with Arya, haven't you." it's not a question, it's an accusation. _Damn that girl. She's spreading rumors about things she's not old enough to understand._

"I may have had words with her once or twice about it." Varys titters, "But it's plain by the red on your cheeks that I'm right. The question is—"

"Stop." Tyrion says sternly, "I don't want to discuss this."

For what feels like a long time, Varys studies Tyrion as he drinks from his arbor red. When his cup is empty, Tyrion sets it down and burps. "I'm in need of sleep. There's much to do tomorrow."

"Will you consider Theon Greyjoy as Commander? I'd feel terrible if that poor boy was devoured by dragons."

"I'll see what I can do. Truth be told, if Daenerys commanded it, the Unsullied would likely go along, though they wouldn't be very happy."

"Making people happy is what I do best." Varys sighs as he lifts himself from his chair. "I apologize if I offended you, Tyrion. I understand after what you went through with Shae, you wouldn't—"

"Shae? This has nothing to do with her." Tyrion snaps.

"Doesn't it?" Varys tilts his head, his arms crossed, standing before the Dwarf with mild amusement. "You said you've never met a woman you could trust more than Daenerys. I assumed you had Shae on your mind when you said that…"

"Actually, I was thinking of Cersei." Tyrion smirks, though of course this is a lie, and Varys can tell. "Look, I'm not falling in love with our Queen. I admire her greatly, but that's as far as it goes. There's no sense in even discussing this."

"Well it's good to know your feelings won't interfere with the marriage we have planned for her, then." Varys says coyly.

"Is that what you're concerned about? I was the one who proposed the plan, wasn't I?"

"Yes… you were."

"You have nothing to fear. I'm a grown man in spite of my height. Besides, whenever I think about her in… that way, I have my hands to keep me company."

"Thank the gods." Varys rolls his eyes, "What would we do if you couldn't touch yourself? We'd be doomed."

"Forgive me, you must miss the pleasures of masturbation…"

"Not really. I was never interested, in fact."

"Please don't let Daenerys know. I'd rather not have this conversation with her, or ever again in fact."

"Your secret is safe with me." Varys swears before bowing and exiting the balcony, leaving Tyrion alone at last. He fills his cup with wine and swallows it down, fills it, swallows, fills, swallows… then finally sets down his cup and retires to his bed where he collapses on his face and lets out a long built-up fart. Relief settles in the pit of his stomach as the alcohol takes effect, making him dizzy even as he lies there motionless.

 _Damn that Spider, bringing up feeling like we're children. I'm Hand of the King, I don't feel anything more for Daenerys than respect. It's purely platonic, nothing more. Sure, I might find her attractive… I mean the way she looks when she sits on her throne… and the way her legs swing when she walks with that determined looks she gets… and how her hair blows in the wind when she's riding her dragons…_ His belt buckle clinks as he slides his pants off, rolls over, and releases his cock. He imagines Dany climbing onto the bed and taking his erection in the palm of her hand. He can practically feel the way her tongue rolls down his skin, swallowing him whole… and he wants her. He wants her so badly that by the time he climaxes there are tears leaking down his cheeks.


	34. Theon II

Theon

"Oi, Reek, what do you say to a bit of fun?"

"Shut up…"

"C'mon, Reek, don't be like that. We're _friends_ , aren't we?"

"Go… away…"

" _Reek._ Don't make me angry. You remember what happened the last time you made me angry?"

 _I can't bear this. I'm mad. I'm completely mad. When I open my eyes, there he is—everywhere I go. I can't even take a shit without—_

"Believe me, Reek, I don't want to watch you take shits either; though I am curious… Without your cock, how do you take a proper piss? You must be feeling uncomfortable, you haven't pissed in quite some time. C'mon, whip her out and let's see how she's healed! Is there a little hole the size of my little finger that you piss out of now? I'm dying to know, Reek!"

" _GO AWAY!_ " yells Theon, clawing his nails through his long, tangled locks of hair. He stands up, opening his tear-stricken eyes—and there he is; Ramsay Bolton, son of Roose Bolton. Skin like snow and eyes as sharp as daggers, he grins across Theon's room at him, opening his arms up as if to embrace him warmly. Instead Theon tackles him—yet as soon as he makes contact, Theon collides with his mirror on the wall. The crash is loud, glass rains down along the stone floor, and there's a pounding pain in his forehead blinding him. He reaches up and pulls a sliver of glass out from his eyebrow, painting his fingertips red. All the while Ramsay laughs and laughs, now standing in a corner near the door under shadow.

"If you'd tried that when I was still alive, you might still have your cock." Ramsay remarks.

" _I'm mad_." Theon mumbles, fumbling his fingers along his scalp for any sign of glass still hanging in his hair. He finds another, much longer piece in his shoulder and winces as he slides it out from his skin. "I'm mad. I'm _just_ mad. You're not _real_. I can make you go away."

"Can you? Let's see it, then."

Theon bends down with a trembling hand to pick up one of the biggest broken pieces of mirror on the floor. "When I hurt myself bad enough, you'll disappear, like after the wildfire explosion…"

" _Right…_ except it didn't take very long for me to come back, now did it? You'd really hurt yourself just to be rid of me for a moment or two?" _He's right. I can't do that… but…_ Theon lifts the glass to his wrist and rests the edge along his vein. Ramsay's eyes widen, but his smile never so much as twitches. Theon watches him, draped in a filthy cloak on his knees amidst the glass, waiting apprehensively for how his madness will respond to this threat…

"If you think that will work, you're a bigger bloody fool than I gave you credit for."

"You better convince me not to." Theon whimpers, terrified now, "You have to. If I die, then you die too."

"I'm already dead."

"No, you're not. You're still out there, somewhere… the real you."

"Maybe, but either way, you're not killing me, Reek, just yourself. If I'm not real, then why should I care?"

"Then… then I really don't have any way out…" Theon cries, his grip around the glass squeezing hard enough to draw blood. "I won't live like this… I can't… not again…"

"Go on, then, I'm watching. It's _easy_ , here, let me help." Ramsay is suddenly right in front of him, on his knees as well, gently guiding his pale hands up to Theon's. _As soon as those fingers clamp down on my hand I won't be able to stop it—I'll plunge this glass into my wrist and bleed to death like a stuck pig on the floor, and that'll be the last legacy of the Greyjoy House—the last memory I'll ever have… the last time I'll ever have to feel this way…_

 _Knock! Knock! Knock!_

Theon snaps out of his trance and jerks his head around to gawk at his bedroom door. _Whoever's knocking has no idea what they're about to walk in on._ He hides the glass under his cloak and listens, no longer aware of Ramsay's presence. The knocker is a woman, and her voice is quiet and shy. "Are… are you awake, Lord Greyjoy?"

" _Make her go away."_ seethes Ramsay in his ear.

Theon blinks, then stutters, "C-Come in."

When the small, beautiful Dothraki enters the room, she freezes at the sight of Theon on the floor amidst broken glass, bleeding out his shoulder and brow like a stuck pig. He remembers her, but not her name. She was the one Tyrion Lannister had paid to comfort him a while back, an offer Theon had refused. _What is she doing here?_ "How did you find me?" He asks instead.

Her gorgeous eyes are full with fear. "I asked the Hand. I wanted to see you."

Theon climbs slowly to his feet, glaring at her. "Why?"

"Are you hurt? You're bleeding…"

"I'm fine. I just tripped is all." He reaches his bed and collapses, wincing as blood juts down his shoulder to his breast. Before he knows it, the Dothraki girl is beside him, gently grasping his arm to inspect the wound herself. A tingle of longing he can't ignore runs down his spine. He almost flinches at her touch, but restrains himself.

"I can help." She mutters to him, "When I was married, my Khal would cut himself in battle, I know how to—"

"Did the Spider pay you to come here again?" Theon accuses.

"I told you, I wanted to see you." She takes her hands away, rips her black handmaiden gown, and wraps the cloth around his shoulder. "I see you sometimes… you're always on your own, avoiding everyone. I see you talk to yourself…"

"I don't need you to worry about me."

"Then show me what you have in your hands…"

Theon's grip around the glass tightens painfully. He hesitates before revealing it to her. She plucks it from his grasp, glaring at him with tears in her eyes. "That's not what it looks like…"

She says nothing, she only stares at him, looking through him. Theon grimaces, his eyes burning, unable to quell the swelling need to break down. She rubs his back with her finger-tips as the tears come pouring out. His face collapses into his palm, heaving and shaking. "It's okay, I'm here…" she whispers to him. He leans into her, nestling his face into her bosom.

"I was going to do _it_ —I was going to _kill myself_. He was going to _let_ me…"

"Who?"

"R-Ramsay! He's here—he's always tormenting me. I can't be rid of him, nothing works!" He knows she has no idea what he's going on about, and that he must sound mad; yet the Dothraki woman clutches him like a mother would their babe, rocking him back and forth like the gentle sway of a ship in the ocean. "I know I'm mad. I lost my mind in the battle for King's Landing—right after all the Lannisters had given up, I saw him—I saw Ramsay, I just lost it… Yara stopped me, _she saved me!_ If she hadn't grabbed me off of them, I'd have been caught in the wildfire right alongside her. I still see her face when I close my eyes—the way she looked right at me when the skin melted off her bones…"

Her warmth is comforting... Theon realizes Ramsay isn't saying anything, yet is too afraid to open his eyes and see if he's still there. _Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be?_ So he keeps them closed as she leans back with him in his bed, humming him a song he's never heard before. For a while he doesn't say another word, he just listens to her soothing voice and the rhythm of her heartbeat. Finally, his curiosity gets the best of him and he opens his eyes. Ramsay is gone. The dark shadows of his chamber threaten safe harbor, yet Theon can't find him anywhere. _He's gone… why?_ _Is it because of her?_

"What's your name?" Theon whispers, his lips brushing the soft skin of her collar bone as he looks up into her wide, green eyes.

"Ornela."

"Ornela… you don't have to do this…"

"My Lord, it's alright." Ornela traces her fingers along the smooth curve of his cheekbone. Ever since Ramsay made him a eunuch, his once stubbled chin has slowly been losing hair. Theon blushes, and before he knows what he's doing—both he and Ornela lean in and plant their lips together in a firm, warm kiss. _I want her._ Their tongues swirl. Their hands grope. _I want her now! I need to feel…_ A stab of pain is not what he wants, but it's what he gets in the pit of his groin. He stops kissing her to gasp in agony, pushing her away.

"I can't…" He cries, shivering and crawling across his bedsheet to get as far away from her as possible. Ornela snatches his wrist before he can escape, however, and calms him down by gently sliding her nails down his spine. The shiver sends a cool river through his nerves.

"We don't need to have sex for me to make you _heal_." She says, "I was raped by countless men my entire life. My Khal took me whenever he desired me, even against my will. I could live the rest of my life happy without ever lying with a man again… I could be by your side, if you'd have me. I could make you happy…" Her words, and the way her nails trace circles along his back, cast a convincing argument. Soon her breasts are cushioning him again, her legs wrapping around his waist like serpents. He shivers in her embrace, trembles at her breath along his flesh, and soon… soon even the pain in his groin subsides… and disappears completely. Theon never closes his eyes, too afraid that as soon as he does—he'll wake up to Ramsay laughing, saying it's all a trick—that Theon fell for another one of Ramsay's games again…

Ornela's songs sweep his paranoia away, and Theon drifts off into a peaceful slumber, for once free from his pain.


	35. Jaime IV

Jaime IV

Never has Jaime missed his hand more than he does now.

His muscles are on fire from running, his face is numb from the cold, and every so often he stumbled and fell. With only one hand to catch himself with, he'd land painfully on his fingers. Brienne always helped him back up, her face red and her hair drenched with snow. They hear the dead following them, their unearthly shrieks penetrating the night sky, and it pushes them to keep going. _I'm a forty-year-old man with one hand running through the wild being chased by undead monsters found only in children's tales. How did this happen? How did I end up here?_

In the end, Jaime decided it was all Cersei's fault. _She_ was the one who insisted he journey north. _If not for her madness, none of this would have happened. I could've been there to protect her. I could've saved her from the Dragon Queen… instead I'm here. Gods be damned. Cersei, you fool._ Tears sting his eyes, blinding him. Brienne notices, but says nothing, winded from running through ankle-deep trenches. It had taken all of Jaime's strength to drag her away from her squire. Two nights had passed since then, two nights of silence broken by Brienne's quiet sobs. _She's just as distressed as I am. She doesn't want to be here. She hates herself for being alive when Sansa and Podrick have fallen. There's nothing I can say to fix that. She might as well be a stranger to me…_

They find a small cave in the side of a mountain to hide inside. It's Jaime's turn to rest, so he collapses on sharp, solid rocks and exhales with relief. Standing guard by the cave's mouth, Brienne has her back to him, glaring out into the white blizzard for any sign of their hunters.

"You should come inside and rest." Jaime says to her quietly.

"No." Brienne mutters.

"They won't find us hiding in here, they'll run past us. If they see you, though, then we'll have nowhere to run. It's safer inside."

Brienne scowls, her hair whipping in the wind, before retreating inside and collapsing against the wall beside him, her armor grinding against the rock. For a while they just listen to the wind howling outside…

"It's not your fault."

Brienne slowly turns her head around and glares at him. Jaime is looking at her with a solemn expression, his face covered in sweat and dirt. He says, "What happened to Pod… to Sansa… none of that is your fault, Brienne."

"What would you know about it?" Brienne asks.

 _More than I care to admit._ Jaime envisions Cersei the moment before she died and feels a stab of pain in his heart. Her letter still haunts him, her plea for him to return to her—she almost sounded the way she used to when they were in love… _Cersei stopped loving me. She only wanted to use me for her own agenda. I was nothing but a sword for her to wield… A pawn in her little game. She got what she deserved, I know it in my heart… yet I can't get over this feeling. I should've been there for her. I should've done something…_

"If you'd gone up to that tower, you would've died. All of us would have died. Instead you rescued me. I don't know why you did, but you did, and I'm eternally grateful that you did. There was no way of knowing those things would attack Winterfell. Nobody knew they were coming. It's not your fault, Brienne."

"Someone knew. Jon Snow… he knew all along and the North threw him out like he was garbage. He would've been prepared, he would've defended Winterfell."

"Then someone ought to find him and tell him what's happened." Jaime says, "If the rest of Westeros doesn't know the Wall has fallen, then everyone from Winterfell to Dorne is in danger."

"How do we find him? We don't know where he is." Brienne grumbles.

"Yes, we do. Remember? He said he was going to find Daenerys. Daenerys is in King's Landing, now ruling. Right now we're the only ones alive that know what's happening. We have to return there and—" _and get vengeance for my sister_ "—and warn him. Warn everyone of what's happening."

"Even if we did, what's the point? Jon might believe us, but the rest of the world won't. They'll laugh at us, chastise us, maybe even hang us. We'll be called mad."

"Not if Jon aims to take the Iron Throne for himself. If he's King then the rest of Westeros will fall in line under his command. If he convinces Daenerys to join him, then he'll have three full grown dragons." _The same dragons that burned my sister alive._

"We still have to make it there. With the dead on our heels, how are we supposed to travel all the way to the capital?"

"I've never known you to be one for giving up, Brienne." Jaime says, glancing at her… and he sees a single tear sliding down her frostbitten cheek. _Shit…_

"It's hopeless. We're already dead, Jaime. There's nothing we can do." Brienne sniffs, wiping her face off with her armored wrist. "We might as well sit in this cave and wait for them to find us."

Jaime watches her for a long time, his heart hammering in his ears. Her words cut deep, a part of him knowing she's not wrong. _We're hopelessly fucked out here with only one axe to defend ourselves with against thousands of the undead…_ "Brienne…" He whispers, "Do you remember what you told me that night after I'd lost my hand?"

"What?"

"I was feeling sorry for myself. I had no will to live. I thought I'd lost everything… but then you told me to stop acting like such a bloody woman. I got my first taste at loss and suddenly I was ready to give up. So, I'm going to tell you the same thing; _stop acting like such a bloody woman_." He clamps his only hand down over hers, their fingers brushing together. Both hands are frozen and white, yet when they embrace a warmth begins to spread between them both. Brienne slowly lowers her gaze down at his hand over hers, her face impossible to read. Jaime feels a stirring in his heart he's never felt before and releases her hand—but before it lifts even an inch off of hers, she takes his hand in hers, gripping tightly for purchase… _What is this feeling? Why is she holding my hand? Does she…_

Perhaps it's the cold, perhaps it's the safety of their cave, or perhaps it's the swollen sense of loss in their hearts—but before Jaime knows what's happening, he's leaning in to plant a kiss on her lips…

Brienne pulls back as soon as their lips meet, her eyes wide with fear. "What are you doing?" She asks, her voice quivering.

Jaime blinks, looks down at their interlocked fingers, and tries to find the right words. "I just thought… my apologies…"

"You kissed me." Brienne whispers, her face redder than he's ever seen.

Jaime lets go of her hand and crosses his arms, feeling embarrassed and stubborn. _What was I thinking? Of course, she wouldn't want to kiss me. We're friends, not lovers. I'm a fool. What was I thinking?_ "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I just… got taken up in the moment." _I'm not even attracted to her, am I? She's bigger than me, stronger than me… yet when she took my hand… for the briefest of moments, Brienne has never looked more beautiful._

" _Again."_

The word is a whisper on her lips. Jaime looks up into her glistening eyes. "What?"

"Kiss me again."

 _She's serious…_ Jaime is taken aback this time, and even more so when he uncrosses his arms and lifts his hand up to clasp her cheek, pulling her head in close to his, unable to believe what he's about to do. This time she kisses him back. Her breath is raw and she smells like a man, yet Jaime can't help himself. After their lips part, he kisses her again—deeper, with more passion than before. When he releases her, she trembles and forces her lips on his, plunging her tongue into his mouth, wrestling with his. Jaime closes his eyes and remembers Cersei's kisses; how rough she could be—biting his lip to the point of drawing blood. Brienne's aren't at all like her's. She kisses like someone who's never kissed in their lives; and there's something wildly alluring about it.

Jaime's hand slides down her cheeck to her collar bone before resting on her breast plate. He frowns and pulls his lips away enough to breathe out the words, "Take it off."

She doesn't smile. She never does the entire time. It takes her a minute to remove her gauntlets, her shoulder plates, and finally her breast plate, tossing them to the rocks. She doesn't strip seductively like Cersei would, she undresses like a boy. Underneath all that armor, Brienne is still stocky and muscular. When they kiss, his hand finds her unarmored breasts, his rough fingers teasing her nipples under her shirt. A long, deep moan escapes her lips. _She wants this. I never thought she would, but she does…_ Then Jaime remembers something that gives him pause. _She's a virgin. I'm probably the first man to ever kiss her, to ever touch her this way…_ "Brienne." he mutters as she presses him against the rocks, "Are you sure you want this?"

She answers him with her hands, unfastening the belt around his waist… Before she can find his erection, however, Jaime stops her.

"What is it?"

"Let's slow down…" Jaime whispers, "Brienne, you've never done this before."

"I know how to do it." Brienne mutters impatiently, though she looks more unsure of herself than ever.

Jaime cracks a smile, finding her insecurity fascinating. "I know, but… let me take the lead. Rest on your back…"

Never has Jaime missed his hand more than now, climbing over Brienne's body as she rests against the rocky floor. Sweet kisses along her neck, traveling down her exposed chest, finally to her abdomen where muscles writhe with anticipation; Jaime delivers them with grace. Only Cersei he's ever been with, so he treats Brienne like a goddess; her body an undiscovered diamond that only Jaime has ever touched. He feels almost like a virgin himself, carefully pulling her pant-legs down to expose her blonde tuft of southern hair… not unlike Cersei's. Brienne quivers as Jaime gently kisses her mound, looks up into her eyes one last time for reassurance, and carefully parts her legs…

Thankfully, Jaime only needs one hand for this… and his tongue.


	36. Jon V

Jon

The cliffs of Crackclaw Point rise like mountains over the flat surface of the sea. Dusk light settles across the bay, casting everything in shadow. Jon's army lines the cliffs wielding swords of fire, burning like candles along the horizon. From down here in their little boat, Jon can't help but be impressed with Davos and Thoros for coming up with the idea. From here, Jon's army looks deceptively large. _Fifty thousand men, most of whom are Dothraki. That's my army, but when I look up and see those flaming swords… Daenerys will think there's more. Much more._

Within their dingy sits Jon at the head, Davos and Thoros at his sides, with Lords Mallister, Edmure, and Khal Juugo rowing. Their boat is the only one in the water that morning. As he'd promised in his letter, Jon was leaving his army behind as a sign of good faith on his part. Still, as he sits cramped alongside his bannermen, Jon can't help but grow nervous looking up at the enormous, black castle in their midst. _The old seat of House Targaryen is now the throne of Westeros, and soon it will be mine. Soon I will be King. I'll unite the Kingdoms against the Dead in the North and defend the Wall with hundreds of thousands of men… and dragons, if things go according to plan…_

Jon's plan grew more complicated by the day. He'd promised the Dothraki their vengeance, and he'd promised Lord Mallister and Edmure that he'd take the throne. _Everything relies on fulfilling those oaths. If I fail, then I lose my army. I lose my leverage… I have to fulfill my promises and somehow make Daenerys my ally while having her give up her throne… If I don't, then all of this was folly._ He looks to Davos and spots the old man glaring at him, no doubt just as nervous as Jon felt. Jon nods to him with a small smile, the sea's breeze tossing his long hair around his face. _I wouldn't be here if not for him. He's my most trusted councilor of them all. I need him now more than ever if I'm going to do this right._

About halfway there, Jon notices a small boat sailing out from Dragonstone's shores to meet them. From here, Jon can't make the sailors out. It takes several long, agonizing minutes before he sees two small people on board alongside two men rowing. _Is that her? is that Daenerys coming out to meet us here? Is she trying to stop me from even entering her throne room? What game is this?_ He hears Davos mutter, "Keep your eyes on the sky. First sign of those dragons and we start swimming for our lives…"

"Why would she sail out here to meet us?" Jon asks Davos over his shoulder.

"We don't know if that's her or just a couple of fishermen." Davos says and Jon swallows the lump in his throat, his grip on Longclaw tightening.

"I shouldn't be here." mumbles Lord Edmure Tully, shaking with fear as he rows. "This was a mistake. We're all going to die out here like fools."

"I'll make sure you die first if you don't shut it." Lord Mallister grunts with a smirk.

The boat from Dragonstone gets steadily closer and closer… Jon can start to make out the two people standing in it. Both of them are small enough to be children, which strikes him as odd immediately. One has longer hair than the other, and a beard. Both are dressed in black… One's a man, and one… one is a girl… a girl with dark, mahogany hair, her face as white as snow, her skinny body dressed in leather…

 _No…_ Jon's jaw drops. He rises up from his seat, his legs numb and his chest weighing him down heavily. _No, that can't be…_ Closer and closer, their ships ripple through the sea in silence. _Her face… my eyes must be playing a trick on me…_ The one next to her he recognizes as well to be the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister. Even after all these years, the small man is unmistakable… but it's the girl beside him that stops his heart. Jon can't breathe. He can't think. He wasn't expecting this at all. _This can't be real. This must be some sort of spell_. _There's no way that I'm looking at—_


	37. Arya IV

Note from the Author: There's a good chance many of you might skip the last chapter because I'm uploading these two at once. Please go back and read JON V before reading a single word further.

Arya

 _It's really him…_

A scar curves around his right eye, a thick, black beard covers his chin, and his hair is so much longer than she remembers it; his face so much older… but it's Jon. He's still the same brother she remembers mussing up her hair in Winterfell, and all the maturity he gained over their years apart disappears the moment he recognizes her. "Arya?"

She can't take it. _It's his voice._ He's gawking at her, and now so are the rest of the men aboard his ship. She's grinning so hard her face feels like it's about to split open; her eyes are welling up, blinding her—so she wipes them away quickly, just so she could see Jon all over again. _He's really here. Tyrion wasn't lying. He's really here!_

"Will you hurry it up?" Tyrion grunts to the men rowing their ship, an impatient scowl on his face. Arya hardly hears him, it takes everything she has not to scream Jon's name—Then Jon bends down, removing his cloak, his boots, gloves, and finally his sword; rushing to get them off of him as quickly as he can. One of the men with him asks what he's doing. Jon doesn't say a word. Arya laughs as Jon dives head-first into the lapping waves with a splash. He emerges with a gulp of air, swimming for Arya's boat.

Crying, Arya grins at Tyrion beside her. He smiles back, albeit a little less passionately, then frowns as Arya removes her boots and her swords. "Now hold on, Arya—you shouldn't swim in your condition—"

 _SPLASH!_

Water cold as ice fills her nostrils and lungs but she doesn't care. Submerged under the surface, Arya looks down into the endless black depths beneath her feet before frantically swimming up again. When she emerges, she coughs up the water she swallowed and swims as fast as she can. _Jon's only ten feet away!_ The muscles in her right arm sear with pain from the pressure on her missing hand, her legs kick at the water like she's swimming for her life, and she can only barely make Jon out over the waves. _I have to get to him! Something always goes wrong! I have to get to him before he drowns or a shark eats him or—or—_

As if to confirm her worst fears, Jon abruptly sinks beneath the water and disappears… Arya stops, five feet away, terror filling her heart. _No! Jon! No!_ She dives beneath the water to save him from whatever had pulled him under—and as soon as she does, Jon's face rises up to meet her, his arms wrapping around her shoulders, squeezing her close to him. He sinks beneath the water's surface with her in his arms, muffling Arya's scream of joy. Her tears rise off from her cheeks, mixing with the ocean, as she buries her face into Jon's chest. When they swim up to breathe, Arya is still crying. Jon is too, grinning from ear-to-ear. His fingertips slide through her hair and grip her head close to him, and for the first time since she was a little kid, Arya breaks down in a fit of sporadic, uncontrollable sobs. She clings to him with her arms and legs and refuses to let go. Jon keeps his legs kicking so they don't sink again while Tyrion's ship rows up to meet them. _I can hear his heart beating._ She lifts her head up to look in Jon's eyes, fighting back her tears to say, "I never thought I'd see you again."

"I'm here now." Jon says between laughter and he musses up her hair.

They climb on board her ship, Tyrion helping them, and collapse on the wood making it rock back and forth unsteadily. Arya immediately returns to hugging Jon, hiding her face from everyone so that she could cry. _"I missed you so much!"_ she moans through spit and snot. Jon sits down with her beside him and she finally lets him go, wiping the water from her eyes. He looks to the dwarf and gives him a short nod. Tyrion returns it with a smile.

"Hello Jon."

"Tyrion. It's been a long time."

"It has. You're certainly not the young man I met in Winterfell anymore."

"A lot has changed, I'm surprised to find you here with my sister."

Arya hardly hears any of this. She's grinning up at Jon so hard it hurts. He wraps his arm over her shoulder and scoots her in closer to him so that she can embrace his body in a tight, never-ending hug. That's when Jon's face contorts into horror. "Arya, your hand! What happened?!"

"Huh? Oh this?" Arya lifts her stump up. No longer does she need bandages, the skin had healed over the wound leaving an X-shaped scar where her wrist ends. "I lost it in a fight."

"How? Who were you fighting? You must tell me everything you've been through, everything ever since we parted in Winterfell. I want to hear it all."

"There will be plenty of time for that soon." Tyrion says quietly, "Right now the Queen is expecting us in her throne room. It would not be wise to leave her waiting, she has a short temper as of late."

"At least explain to me what she's doing here." Jon says to the imp, his brow forming a small frown. "Why wasn't I informed?"

"We thought it best you didn't know until now." Tyrion shrugs, "If we told you with a raven, you might assume we're keeping her hostage."

"You're not?" Jon asks.

"No, quite the opposite. She works for me." Tyrion smiles. "She's quite the little warrior, your sister."

"She's not a warrior, she's a child." Jon's tone suggests he's growing angry, so Arya lifts her only hand to cup Jon's chin and turn his attention on her.

"Jon, it's alright. I know what I'm doing. I knew if I stayed here I'd see you again, Tyrion promised me that. I trust him. If not for him, I wouldn't be here."

Jon still looks concerned, and Arya loves him for it. Eventually Jon's ship catches up with theirs and they turn around to head for Dragonstone. The whole way there, Arya catches Jon up on everything she can, her words tumbling out of her like she'd been holding them captive inside her for all these years. Jon listens to every word, holding his sister close to him.

She never wants him to let her go.


	38. Tyrion IV

It's been like a year since I've updated this story and I recently felt inspired to pick it up again. I'll be honest, I was a little let down by season 7 after watching it. There was some great stuff, but a lot of it felt contrived instead of realistic and I loath the way they killed off Petyr Baelish. I also don't like the way they've handled Tyrion's story, or Arya's.

Since it's been a while, here's a recap of the story so far…

In Season 7 Daenerys arrived at King's Landing and went to war with Cersei, which ended with wildfire and dragonfire burning the city to ash. Cersei loses her life, Arya lost her hand, and Dany lost Drogon, leaving his body in the Dragon pit away from all the chaos in the city. Without King's Landing, and without a Queen of Westeros, Dany took up residence on Dragonstone and had herself coronated as the Queen.

In the north, Jon Snow was resurrected again after being betrayed… again. This time by Littlefinger and Howland Reed. Jon has his mission, to save the North and all of Westeros from the threat beyond the wall. He takes his small band of men and goes south to the twins where they find it in the middle of being under siege by Edmure Tully, who has retaken the Riverlands with the help of Lord Mallister. Jon walks through the flames inside the burning tower and hears a voice call out to him, telling him to find Dany. He comes out unscathed, and uses his title as a Targaryen to promise the Riverland Lords that he will retake the throne from Dany and become the rightful ruler of Westeros himself, to unite all people and finally put an end to the Night King. He finds the dothraki who had abandoned Dany at King's Landing and convinces them to join his side, though a lot of Dothraki continue to pillage the south, making way toward Highgarden.

Sam is with the mysterious man called Jaqen H'ghar, having just left Gilly and Little Sam with Olenna Tyrell in Highgarden while he continues northward to meet Dany and Jon in Dragonstone. Meanwhile there's Littlefinger who has just captured Bran, has the North's army and the Vale's army at his disposal, and is making way southward to confront Daenerys on Sansa's behalf…

Sansa, who was kissed by the Night King when the army of the dead finally arrived at Winterfell. Brienne was forced to choose between saving Sansa and saving Jaime. She chose Jaime, and Sansa, who rose so far, was given the kiss of death. The Dead have taken The Stark's home, and the north along with it. Westeros's only hope now is that Jon and Dany can unite peacefully…

Though you never know, all it takes is one man to make history…

Sorry for the long wait. Please enjoy!

 **Tyrion**

Their small boat ports on Dragonstone's pale, sandy shores as a cold wind whips his long, curly hair about his eyes. The dwarf is speechless and smiling as he takes in the sight of Jon and Arya, brother and sister jesting with one another. He's teasing her for missing a hand, saying she can't fight properly without proper balance first. She scowls and scolds him, saying she knows more about fighting than he does now. Jon just scoffs, but Tyrion wonders if that's true. _Jon Snow. You've grown hard in the years since we've last met. We both have. The scars that brand our faces are the evidence of our trials, and our trophies for what we've endured._

Tyrion dares to interrupt them with a question; "I assume you know how to swing that sword by now?" Jon glances over his shoulder down at him and nods, gripping Longclaw protectively. Tyrion still remembers when he first met Jon in Winterfell, swinging a sword like mad at a straw-man while his family hosted the King. "Good," Tyrion smirks as they climb out of the boat onto solid land.

"Good for who, Lannister?" growls a voice from the boat shoring up beside them. Tyrion spies Lord Edmure Tully along with a pair of grizzled, old men. One Tyrion recognizes but can't name off the tip of his tongue, the other Tyrion remembers from a long time ago as Lord Mallister, a respectable war veteran. Then Tyrion notices the third man in their boat and his balls leap up inside him. _Why is there a Dothraki with them?_

Varys the Spider is waiting for them not far from the long climb up the rocky steps that lead to Daenerys's castle. The hairless eunuch is clamored up in red and gold linens, and his eyes travel along the party approaching him with discomfort and distrust. _He doesn't like this anymore than I do. Jon's brought a much larger army to our shores than we anticipated. My plan to bring Arya out to meet him seems to have stalled whatever might come next; but once Jon is face to face with Daenerys, this ruse will all come crashing down…_

"Not many guards." The old man Tyrion can't place a name on remarks as he squints up and down the beach.

"We thought it best to come alone." Tyrion lies. The truth was they didn't have any to spare. "It's my belief that it is in both of our best interests if we keep this meeting as civil and respectful as possible."

"Agreed." says Jon. Tyrion's heart lifts to hear it, but he knows better than to trust any man at their word, even a man as seemingly honorable as Jon Snow.

"We have a long walk up to the keep…" Tyrion says, "Mind if you and I speak alone while we travel? My legs won't keep up with yours so how about we slow down and catch up to the rest of everyone at the top?"

"I stay." Arya blurts out. "I'm not leaving Jon's side, not now."

Jon just smiles as if helpless to stop her, and Tyrion quietly nods his head. "Alright, she can stay." The King of the North gives a curt look to his party and they march onward with Varys up the steps. Tyrion clears his throat once the three of them are alone and begin walking. "So, is it safe to assume you've come to take the throne from Daenerys?"

Jon just looks on ahead for a silent second before responding, "Yes."

"Why?" Tyrion asks, glancing nervously at Arya. He really wishes she wasn't here right now, not for this conversation. Jon looks at her too, lips thin and his eyes wincing. _He doesn't want her to know the truth…_

"Arya, there's something I need to tell you…" Jon says, tightly holding onto her hand as they walk up the stone, each step crunching under their feet. _He's going to tell her. He has to. It will come out soon and it's better if she hears it from him now…_ Arya frowns, showing no sign of fear, no confusion, only understanding.

"You're not a bastard, you're a Targaryen."

Even Tyrion can't believe it. "You know?"

"Everybody's talking about it." Arya grins and shrugs, "It doesn't matter to me. You're still my brother."

For that, Jon tussles his hand over her head, mussing up her hair. Tyrion is in awe at them, wondering if this is what a healthy sibling relationship is supposed to look like. _Cersei would cut my hand off if I tried mussing up her hair…_ He suddenly remembers the way her hair felt in his palm as he held her disembodied head over the Blackwater; recalling how even dead her golden hair still felt so real…

"Are you alright, Tyrion?" Jon asks him, snapping him out of this unpleasant memory. "You look like you might be ill?"

"Not ill, just nervous." Tyrion replies, "You bring a considerable force with you, Jon."

"And I can't help but notice you don't have much of an army to match mine, Lord Tyrion." says Jon with an air of smugness that doesn't come off well on him.

"Maybe that's why I look so ill, or maybe Daenerys doesn't believe in showing off her true strength." Tyrion says.

"I doubt that."

"With all those soldiers, how do you plan to sail across the water? I didn't see any ships aside our own." Tyrion asks.

"I am not foolish enough to take my men in to open water where they would be easy targets for these dragons I keep hearing about." says Jon wearily, "Forgive me, Lord Tyrion but discussing battle strategies with my enemies is also something a fool would do."

"Are we enemies yet? I'd much rather be friends."

"That's up to your Queen."

"No, Jon, it isn't. It's up to you… You're the one with the choice here. That's what you don't see. You're so headstrong about seizing this throne from her, but you don't need to seize anything when compromises can be made-"

"I don't have time for compromises." Jon snaps, "Death is at the gates, that's what you don't see… I have. I've seen it many times. I have already been gone from the north for far too long. After I am done here, after I've taken this throne from Daenerys, I will call every House in Westeros to join me at the Wall where we will all fight the White Walkers together as we should have been doing this whole time!"

Tyrion cackles and says, "There's so many problems with your plan I don't even know where to begin-who in their right mind is going to travel their armies up to the north to fight for a King Bastard Snow that claims he's the rightful heir?"

"I can prove I am the rightful heir. Fire cannot harm me."

"Oh and you just discovered this about yourself recently, did you? Test it fully? Give it the good Oldtown try?"

Jon removes the glove from his hand and throws his palm down in front of Tyrion's face. They come to a halt and Tyrion takes in the sight of burned flesh going down from each finger into the center of his hand. "A long time ago I picked up a burning sconce and threw it at a wight. I only held onto it for a second, but I still feel it's pain to this day…" Jon flexes his fingers before slipping his glove back on again. "Since that day I've died twice and been reborn, twice! Each time I feel like I left a piece of myself behind…. When I walked through the burning twins, I walked through fire itself and felt nothing. I stood in the flames, and let them lick off my skin, watched them burn my clothing away; for what felt like forever-and I emerged unharmed. If that isn't proof that I'm Targaryen, that I'm Rhaegar Targaryen's son, then I don't know what else is."

 _Just like Daenerys… Where was this fiery spirit of his when I first met him?_ "You certainly argue like a Targaryen…" He sighs. "She might respect that… but I'm trying to tell you, Jon…. you have all the choices here. You can try to fight us and lose countless lives over a crown that I suspect you don't truly want; or you can become our allies and help us restore peace and order to Westeros."

"I can't trust a mad woman who would burn countless lives just for a crown. Do not pretend she didn't, Tyrion."

" _We_ did. But it was also Cersei's wildfire. We couldn't have stopped it before it was too late. Daenerys tried… that's what you don't hear out there where words are wind."

"Well she tried too hard if you ask me. She could've taken Dragonstone first, peacefully, like she did now. She could've waited, there was no need to attack King's Landing the way she did."

"Then you're speaking to the one to blame, not her. I am the one who advised the attack…" Tyrion looks down at his feet in shame, "It weighs on me every day."

"Good." Jon's cold response is all he gets before trudging up the stairs ahead of him. Arya keeps up with Jon and tugs on his hand to get his attention.

"What is it, Arya?"

"Earlier you said… you died twice and got reborn twice...what do you mean by that?"

"I was…" Jon stops again, and Tyrion strains his ears to listen as he hurries along in their wake. "I've been killed, Arya. Twice. I've been dead for days on end, my body rotting in the snow… all I saw was darkness. All I felt was…"

"Nothing…" Arya finishes for him. "I know what death is like…"

"Not from the pointy end." Jon smirks,

"How did you come back? That's impossible…"

"Magic. The Gods. I have no idea….but something brought me back for a reason. When I stood in that fire, I heard a voice reach out to me… something out there has guided me here, to this place, to confront this Dragon Queen… and it brought me to you."

 _Everything he's saying sounds like madness to me… yet I can't help but believe him. He wouldn't lie to Arya about this._ "Do yourself a favor and let that be the last time you mention this again. Not many are inclined to believe such a tale."

Jon just says, "They won't have to, once I'm King."

"Once again you're being unreasonable. There's no reason for us to fight unless you make one."

"What would you have me do then?!" Jon asks angrily rounding on the dwarf as the wind tosses his hair around wildly. "I have already promised my people vengeance for what your Queen's dragons have done! If I betray that oath, then I lose my army. The world can't afford for that to happen. Even with all those men, I still don't have the numbers to fight the Night's King."

"Who is this Night's King?" Tyrion asks cautiously.

"I'll explain it all in great detail before Daenerys." Jon assures him, calming down but still simmering with irritation. "Look… I don't want any needless bloodshed either… but there's no way for there to be an alliance between us. I'm sorry."

"That's where you're wrong… there is a way…" Tyrion sighs. "You won't like it though."


	39. Daenerys IV

**Daenerys**

From her obsidian throne, Daenerys waits for her Hand to return, sitting still as the stone itself with her hands folded across her lap. On either side of her throne rest Viserion and Rhaegal. The green dragon is asleep in silence, while the beige dragon yawns, rustling its massive head. The long, empty hall rumbles from the snores they produce. A handful of her Unsullied guardsmen stand by along the black walls of her chamber, resolute in their silent duty. Only her children's slumber can be heard… until the doors to the hall groan with life. First Missandei enters, followed by Tyrion and his guards. Arya comes next, and Dany notices a considerable difference in her demeanor. _The child looks happier than I've ever seen her._ Finally the man she assumes to be Jon Snow enters with his Bannermen in tow. She takes in his appearance from across the hall, studying the scar over his eye, admiring his black locks, and she searches for any sign that this man might be her relative like he claims… _I don't see it. No silver hair, no purple in the eye-this man is of the north. Though he is a leader, I can tell. These men with him are all older than him, yet he commands them… but he is no Targaryen._

"You stand before Daenerys Stormborn, Queen and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, First of her Name, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons,." Missandei announces to them after they've all taken their stances in the hall. Tyrion is just beneath her throne at the foot of her stairs. The dwarf casts her a nervous glance before turning to face their company.

It's an old man with a peppery beard and wrinkled eyes who steps up from behind Jon Snow and speaks for him. "This is Jon Snow. He's King of the North." Perhaps if the hall had more witnesses, there would be a murmur and a chuckle somewhere for Jon's lack of titles compared to her's. The old man relaxes his hands behind his back and continues, "My name is Ser Davos Seaworth, Jon's Hand."

"Forgive me, Ser Davos, but since when does a Warden of the North need a Hand?" Daenerys asks.

"King, not Warden, Your Grace." Davos says pointedly.

"Is the North not apart of the Seven Kingdoms?"

"It… is."

"Then as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the North is under my rulership, not his. That makes him my Warden, not a King, that is… if you all bend the knee."

They all have eyes on Jon, who grimaces, eyeing the sleeping dragons with more bravery than she expected, and he says "I have not come to bend the knee."

Dany tries to keep calm, but just hearing him say it sets her blood on fire. "Oh." her tone drops and her eyes grow cold. "Then you are here as an enemy to the crown." Jon doesn't respond, he only stares at her, considering her words. _It's difficult to tell what he's thinking. Damn this man. Does he not fear being burned alive?_

"Perhaps not." Tyrion interjects, "Jon has come here for a reason. Let us hear him out before we make any rash accusations, Your Grace."

"I have come for two reasons." Jon says, taking a couple steps toward her. "One is to have you answer for your crimes against Westeros, for burning down King's Landing and murdering thousands of innocent lives. Westeros refuses to call you their Queen until justice is dealt with."

Daenerys rolls her eyes at this and before he can go on, she says, "I am Queen by rights. I usurped the throne, therefor I have the throne, just as King Robert usurped the throne from my father so many years ago."

"You didn't just usurp it, you destroyed it." Jon snaps, "How many people, innocent people, who lived in King's Landing, who suffered under Cersei's rule, died just so you could have power? Their deaths must have justice."

"Their deaths were necessary." Daenerys seethes. _How dare he speak to me this way, he doesn't know me. One word and I could have him screaming for mercy, all I have to say is Dracarys._

"Your Hand informed us that it wasn't just the dragons who burned the city down." Davos speaks up, sensing the tension building, his voice cuts through it like butter. "Cersei's wildfire also played a part-I imagine the chaos there was devastating to behold… I'm from flea bottom, you see."

"I'm sorry your home has been taken from you, Ser Davos Seaworth, but I would do it all again if it manifested the same results." assures Dany, and she stands up from her throne, descending her steps toward Jon. Tyrion wobbles on his feet as she passes him, unsure of if he should go with her or not. Jon lifts his gaze as she reaches the floor and comes to meet him face to face. "All my life I only had one goal, to reclaim what is rightfully mine. I was born in Dragonstone, not that I would remember it; I was taken from my home to a far away country. I've seen things no one has, and accomplished things no one could. I've been tortured, beaten, raped, and sold. The entire time only one thing got me through it. Faith in myself. I told myself I would become Queen one day, and I placed my faith in Daenerys Targaryen."

Jon's eyes glare into her own, neither daring to turn away. She feels a strange sense of both warmth and chilling coldness from him that she's never felt before from a man. Jon blinks then says, "You'll be Queen of a graveyard."

"Is that a threat?" Dany asks, smiling confidently.

"Yes, but not from me." Jon promises, "Which brings me to the other reason I'm here…"

"Yes, do explain." Tyrion says, walking forward to join them but coming just short. Dany can tell her Hand is watching her, waiting for her to snap. A part of her wants to prove him wrong, that she's not like the monster that was her father… but another part of her wants to rip Jon apart before he can finish his sentence.

"The Dead are marching on the Wall right now as we squabble over who gets to sit on the biggest chair! None of this matters! All that matters is what's coming for all of us."

"The Dead?" Daenerys lifts her brow and glances down at Tyrion, who appears just as puzzled as she is. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Pretty sure Dead can only mean one thing." Tyrion remarks with narrowed eyes.

Jon just shakes his head impatiently, saying, "I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but do you take me for a liar or a mad man?" The question is directed toward her Hand, so Tyrion is taken off guard a bit.

"No, neither of those." is his answer.

"The Night King has an army of the dead and they grow larger by the day. I've seen it with my own eyes… If they get through The Wall, every single man, woman, and child will pay the price." Jon darts his cold gaze to Dany's.

"A convenient story." Dany replies, "One that might work on your people but not on mine."

"Your Grace, I believe him." Tyrion grumbles. She rounds on him and he doesn't back down. "Trust me, I consider my well of skepticism larger than my own stature, and when I visited The Wall these stories of dead men haunting the woods was ridiculous; I called them Grumpkins and Snarks… but after the things I've seen, these dragons for instance, I find it much easier to believe nowadays."

"You don't have to believe me." Jon says dismissively, "I didn't come here to ask you for your help. I came here to take what is mine."

At this, Dany is tempted to give in and burn this fool alive. Tyrion can see it, and moves in to intercede, saying, "Let's say we do believe you, what then? Is there no cause for this meeting to end peacefully?"

Ser Davos steps between them as well, "A blind man can see that you two don't like each other. Let's get that out of the way. Your Grace, we need your help and you need ours."

"How do we need your help?" Dany scoffs.

"We have an army, you don't." Davos says plainly. "Unless they're all hiding in the rocks." Something about the way he speaks makes Dany like Davos more than Jon. _He's not afraid to speak his mind_. Davos says, "You have dragons, yes. Formidable as they are, without an army or allies, you're nothing." he glares at Jon next and says, "Just as we are nothing to the Night King without these dragons."

"We could argue all day over who has the better claim to the throne, or we can argue about how to defend the Wall." Tyrion suggests, "What Davos says makes sense, Your Grace. I think we should form an alliance."

"Agreed," says Davos.

"No," say both Dany and Jon simultaneously.

"A temporary alliance!" Tyrion insists, "Until the threat in the North is dealt with."

"The only threat in the North I see is standing right in front of me." growls Dany. Neither of them back down from each other, not even when one of her dragons rustles its mighty head behind her and yawns. Jon seems completely unafraid, and it infuriates her.

"You know," Jon says quietly, "When I'd heard you and I were related, I'd hoped to find someone who resembled just a piece of what my real father might've been like. But if my father was anything like you; rash, selfish, and full of herself-then I'd have preferred to remain a bastard."

"Do not flatter yourself." Dany seethes, "You're no more Targaryen than anyone else. I am the last of my kind, and it's as simple as that."

"If you don't believe me then have one of your dragons burn me alive, right here, right now." Jon smirks, and the challenge excites her. She's tempted to lift her hand and call Rhaegal's attention, to have this Jon Snow burned to ash-

"Jon!" shouts a voice down below and they both blink and glance down at Arya who is glaring up at them with fury. "Both of you are acting like fucking children. Who cares about any of this? It's just a throne."

"You're still too young to understand." Jon tells her, though Dany notices him relax when he speaks to her, almost as if he'd forgotten his sister was there.

"No, she isn't." says Tyrion wisely, "Trust me, Jon. It would be a mistake to treat Arya like she's just a babe."

Arya smiles at Tyrion, and Dany can tell the two of them have formed a bond. _Great_ , she thinks. _My Hand is starting to fall for these wolves. I'm growing more and more impatient._ "I'm not sure I have anything left to say to these people." Dany exclaims, glaring at her Hand. "You told me you liked this man?"

"I do." Tyrion says, "Which is why I think there is another way for us to resolve this… situation peacefully."

"No." Jon says, shaking his head and backing up from them. Dany wonders what Tyrion could be referring to, and why this Jon knows about it before she does.

Tyrion looks nervous, avoiding either of their eyes as he goes on to say, "It's obvious neither of you will give in. So, I propose, instead of going to war with each other…"

"I'm not marrying her." snaps Jon loudly, "She's a murderer and a mad woman. My people will never forgive me for it. It's out of the question, she's my aunt by blood!"

A part of Dany wants to be insulted, but a stronger part of her can't believe Tyrion would even consider such a foolish idea. Tyrion, however, doesn't let it go. "Throughout history Targaryens have wed within their own families. It's a tradition that continued up until the very last, I believe. If Westeros heard that the last two Targaryens that exist in this world got married-that might be the kind of good publicity we need right now. A wedding of this scale would require every noble house in Westeros to attend, and it is there where you can make your request for aid at The Wall, Jon. You wouldn't be betraying your own people, you'd be fulfilling your promise! Not only would you be sitting on the throne, you'll be able to keep Daenerys in check and make sure what happened in King's Landing never happens again."

"Keep me in check?" Dany repeats, this time not hiding the venom in her tone toward her Hand.

"It's an illusion of course, Your Grace." Tyrion assures her with a nervous smile, "Yes, Jon would sit on a throne… one we can build beside yours. The two of you would rule… together, King and Queen, side by side, both as equals. It's something that's never been done in Westeros, but nobody will question it when you have two full-grown dragons by your side. You always wanted to break the wheel, this is how you start."

Jon and Dany are silent, both glaring at each other as Tyrion's words wash over them. _How could he expect me to rule next to this pretender?_

"No." Jon says sharply, "I refuse."

"So do I." Daenerys says, blunt as a training sword.

"Then it's settled then." Jon says, looking somewhat dissapointed, "If you will not give up the throne, then at dawn prepare for battle." he turns and begins to walk away with Davos and Arya back toward the rest of their party…

"Where do you think you're going?" Dany asks calmly, ignoring the horrified expression on Tyrion.

"Back to my ship." Jon says without looking back.

"You'll have a hard time finding it." Dany says and Jon stops in his tracks, as do the rest. Dany tilts her head back, smiling at them. "You came here of your own free will, I couldn't stop that. But now that you're here, did you really think I'd just let you leave?"

"Daenerys…" Tyrion whispers.

"So we're your prisoners now, is that it?!" Jon shouts, turning back around to face her. Even angry, Jon doesn't look afraid. "You going to lock us in a dungeon? Our people won't stand around on the shores forever, they'll attack if we do not return."

"I'm not keeping all of you. Just you. The rest of your Bannermen are free to cross the sea unharmed. Inform your people that their King is now my prisoner." Daenerys tells him, "Don't worry, I won't keep you in a dungeon, Lord Snow. You're free to move about the island and go wherever you like-until I decide what to do with you."

"This is folly." One of Jon's bannermen grunts, the youngest of them. "Jon, you swore to us vengeance. You swore you wouldn't let this silver-haired bitch get the better of you."

"Watch your tongue, Edmure, or you'll lose it." warns the old man beside him. Unlike Jon, Edmure appeared visibly shaken at the sight of her dragons. "We are still free to leave. Don't fuck that up."

"The little fish is right," grunts the bronze-skinned man with black braids, a man who could only be Dothraki. Dany had been wondering about him in particular since they entered her chamber. The Dothraki is glaring at Dany with tears in his eyes as he steps forward, past Jon, to face her. "I, Khal Juugo, will not let this woman go unpunished. My people are stranded on a foreign land fighting a foreign war because of you, with no way to return to our great grass sea... Your dragons burned people I loved, burned them alive before my eyes, and all you have to say is that their deaths were... necessary?"

Dany swallows a lump in her throat, still caught off guard by his presence in her hall. "You abandoned me and joined with this false King, did you not, Khal Juugo?"

"If he is a false King, then you are a false Queen." Juugo responds, clenching his fists. "I will not leave, not until I have justice." At these words, the Khal's hand slips behind his naval and removes a small dagger hidden beneath his waistband. At the sight of silver, the Unsullied guards lower their spears at Jon's party and rush in but none of them are fast enough-The Khal slings the dagger back over his head, gripping the blade between index finger and thumb-Dany is helpless to do anything but stand there and watch as he arches his arm toward her-

The dagger doesn't fly, however, it merely tumbles out of his grasp-for before Khal Juugo can finish his throw, a blade's tip protrudes from his adam's apple. The large man coughs up blood and falls to his knees. Behind him, Arya Stark slides Widow's Wale out from his throat, her face expressionless.

"Arya!" Jon exclaims in alarm, "What did you do?"

"I'm sorry, Jon…" Arya mutters, "It's my job to protect the Queen. He was going to kill her so…" She hops backward, avoiding the growing pool of blood at her feet.

"Fucking hell." Tyrion grumbles, approaching the dead Khal with sweat pouring down his forehead.

Dany rounds on Missandei and asks, "Did you not disarm them all like I told you?"

"I did." Missandei swears, "Before we entered the throne room, I promise… he must've been hiding it between his… well…"

"Balls." Davos sighs, looking both amused and disgusted, and glaring at Jon. "This won't look good to the rest of the Dothraki, I imagine."

Jon just stares at Arya, speechless.

"This is madness. Fuck this." Lord Edmure Tully shouts, "Jon, don't expect my help fighting. You're on your own." he turns and heads out of the hall, still swearing under his breath, as a pair of Unsullied escort him. Lord Mallister watches him go with narrowed eyes before facing Jon.

"I will return to our forces and persuade as many of them as I can to stay, but if Edmure asks them to leave and if the Dothraki go once they've heard... " Mallister sighs, "We won't have much of an army without them."

"Do what you can…" Jon mutters, "I'll be fine."

"Do you wish us to attack at dawn as planned still?"

"No." Jon says heavily, "Have them wait until I've returned."

Daenerys listens without really listening, her heart is still hammering in her ears. One second off and that dagger would've pierced her heart… but Arya saved her. _Perhaps the little wolf isn't so bad after-all… I ought to thank her properly later with a feast. In the meantime…_

"I'll stay as well." Davos says as Lord Mallister turns to leave. Davos smirks at Jon's surprise and says, "I've been prisoner before on this island. It might be nice to do it without a cell. Besides, gives me a chance to convince the two of you to reconcile your differences so we can focus on the larger threat."

"It's fine with me. Missandei, show these men to their chambers and have them fed. Treat them as guests." Daenerys commands and Missandei nods obediently. "Arya, for your heroism I would like to thank you. Will you join me for supper tonight?"

"I'd rather eat with my brother, if that's alright?" Arya says, sliding Widow's Wale back in its sheath.

"He may join us." Daenerys says, eyeing Jon coyly. "I promise not to poison him."

"Fine." Jon says dismissively, "Come Arya, you and I need to talk alone."

And so they leave Daenerys alone in her hall, alone except for her sleeping dragons and her Hand. Once the doors close, Tyrion sits down on the steps and wipes his hand over his eyes. "That went… about as well as could be expected."

"Did it?" Dany can't help but notice there's still a dead Dothraki on her floor.

Tyrion sees it too. "One dead body… trust me, it could've been worse."

"I can't believe you thought I could marry that man." Daenerys mutters, joining Tyrion on the steps and sitting beside him with her hands in her lap.

"It's still the best solution." Tyrion retorts, "I don't like it either, but if your marriage can prevent countless more lives being lost-and if it will solidify your position as Queen, then it's the right decision."

"I could never love him."

"You wouldn't have to. A political marriage is sometimes the best thing for an alliance to work. If you have children, then no one will ever question the two of you being in love, all that would matter is that it would appear that way."

"I can't have children." Dany reminds him. "It wouldn't work."

"Ah, well, I think there's no way of knowing that until you've tried." Tyrion says, "Jon might seem brash to you now, but he's a good man. Get to know him while he's here. Give him a chance to rub off on you, like you once gave me a chance. You might just change your mind."

 _I doubt that_ , she thinks, but doesn't say.

Later that night, Daenerys is in her chambers with a decadent feast waiting upon her table. She sits beside herself, completely alone… until Missandei enters.

"Your Grace," Her Handmaiden says bashfully, "I asked the Starks to join us, but…"

"They're not coming?"

"No, You're Grace."

"I see… well, then… have this food given to the guards to share, I suppose…" Dany gets up from her chair and moves to her bedroom. Missandei asks if there's anything else she needs, and Dany dismisses her.

Dany slides her clothes off until she stands naked before her fireplace, and lets the heat wash her skin for a while. She eventually collapses on her bed and folds her sheets around her for comfort. _Why can't I stop thinking about him?_ She tosses and turns, trying to let sleep take her away, but her mind is restless. _I can't stop seeing his face. I can't stop picturing him… He's so infuriating, so stubborn, so foolish, and yet…_ Her hand slowly travels down between her legs and when she inspects her fingers they are slick...


	40. CALLING ALL READERS!

HI EVERYONE!

So I have a request to all of you guys who might've enjoyed this story enough to follow me. I know it's been a while but here I am on my hands and knees, asking any and all who might be interested in giving my original work some feedback and constructive criticism. It's a story entitled OUR DYING WORLD and you can find it on my profile. I put it on here under the walking dead fandom but it won't be there for long since it technically isn't fanfiction. If you are interested in doing me this huge favor, send me a DM and I can send you updates that way, or through e-mail, whichever is easiest.

Thank you all and have a good day.


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